


Thirteenth Night

by Nelpher



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, Draco Malfoy in the Muggle World, F/M, Memory Alteration, Muggle Life, Romance, Snarky Draco Malfoy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-12-21
Updated: 2010-12-21
Packaged: 2018-12-04 04:31:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 23
Words: 77,997
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11547543
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nelpher/pseuds/Nelpher
Summary: When Hermione is assigned to keep tabs on a memory-charmed Draco, she is faced with a decision that could change her life forever.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This story was originally posted on Hawthorn and Vine. The story presented here is mostly the same as the one on that site ... I cleaned up the prose in a few spots, but there have been no major changes. 
> 
> The original draft of this was beta-read by Catcachoo, to whom I remain ever thankful!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Draco has a headache.

**Wednesday**

“He awake yet?” 

He supposed that he was the “He” in question, but the searing pain in his head prevented him from expending much more thought on the situation. He opened his eyes slowly: first the left, then the right, then both at once. The blinding light in the room forced him to close them again. 

“Mmm. Looks like it.” Another voice this time. So . “Did he finally get a name besides Doe Comma John?”

There was a rustling of papers. Such _noise_. 

“Malford Comma Drake.”

“Drake Malford?” Voice Number One snickered slightly. “What a name. Sounds like he just walked off the set of a soap opera.”

“Could have, for all we know. Police have been very hush-hush. Just told us the name last night. Help me with these curtains, will you?”

Curtain hooks screeched across a curtain rod. He attempted to open his eyes again. Pain seared through his head. Mistake. He closed them again abruptly.

Voice Number Two approached him again. “Mr. Malford?”

He attempted a “Shhh,” but his lips were too dry to accomplish much of anything beyond a feeble pucker.

“Hmm.” Voice Number One grabbed his wrist and pressed fingers to his pulse. “Let’s get him some meds for the headache. It’s prolly quite bad.” 

He tried to muster a nod. Was rewarded with pain. 

“Don’t worry, Mr. Malford. This will help.” Voice Number One fiddled with something on the IV bag to his right. 

“I’ll tell Doctor Abbington that he’s awake. His chart says that …” Voice Number Two’s words melted into nothingness as the IV dripped blissful oblivion into his veins.

\-----  
**Thursday**

“Mr. Malford?”

He found that he could open both eyes now. The pain was still there, but it was tolerable. Speaking, however, was a bit more difficult. His tongue was a thick, dry, overfed slug in his mouth. His throat felt like it had been lined with burlap. 

“Mr. Malford?” This was Voice Number One, whom, as he could now see, was actually a middle-aged woman with very thin eyebrows. “Would you like some ice chips?” 

He offered the slightest nod he could muster. The ice chips burned, but still felt like heaven to his cracked lips. 

A different woman entered the room now. She had much thicker eyebrows and smelled like antiseptic. “Hello, Mr. Malford,” she chirped. She flipped through his chart and looked at several of the machines he was currently hooked up to. “I’m Doctor Abbington. Nice to see you awake. Follow this light with your eyes. Mmmhmm. Thank you. How’s your head this morning?” She looked into his ears and up his nose. 

“Hurts,” he creaked. His voice sounded alien to him. Probably, he reasoned, because his throat was in such sorry condition. On the other hand, as he was quickly coming to realize, he wasn’t exactly sure how it was supposed to sound. 

“Yes, well, that’s to be expected. That will certainly get better as time goes on,” she said as she continued to poke and prod at him. “Do you remember how you got here?”

“No.”

“Do you remember anything that happened before you got here?”

“No.”

“Hmm,” she said, still shining lights in various orifices.

“Hmm,” he agreed. What he had wanted to say, of course, was something like _“Hmm? What the fuck do you mean ‘Hmm.’? I can’t bloody remember a single thing about how I got here or who the fuck I am. Surely that merits more than an expression of mild fucking curiosity, you stupid cow.”_ Fortunately for the good doctor, however, such lengthy and vitriolic speech was currently not an option for him. 

“Well, you’ll have some visitors soon who should be able to help with that. In the meantime,” she said with a pert smile, “you just rest up. I’ll have Nurse Ortega make sure you get some soup and pudding.”

He closed his eyes again. Blackness.

\--------------------

 

**Friday**

“Malford? Seriously? Drake Malford? You’re a bloody idiot.”

“What?”

“I knew they shouldn’t have left that decision up to you. Not to mention these ID badges you came up with. H. Ranger and D. Thompson. Honestly.” 

“I really don’t see the problem here.”

“And what of the others?” She began to tap her foot on the carpet.

“What do you mean ‘What of the others’? I think that their names are …”

“Nerissa Maffloy? Blaine Zamboni?” She threw her arms in the air, exasperated. “Dean, you are one unoriginal git.”

“You never mentioned the last one. I’m right proud of that one.”

Hermione sighed. “Tulip Parkerson. Oh, yes. Clearly a creative triumph there. Tulip? What kind of name is that?”

“My first idea was Posey,” Dean said, jutting his chin in the air ever so slightly. 

“Yes, this is _loads_ better. Why did it have to be a flower at all? What was wrong with … with … Emily Campbell? Alice Benson? Winifred Stanislaus?” 

“Winifred Stanislaus?”

“You get my point,” Hermione huffed, slamming the folder back onto the desk.

“No, not sure that I do. What exactly is the problem?”

“The problem? The problem is that any half-wit who knows anything about …”

“But that’s the point, Hermione. No one but the Council knows anything about this. And a Muggle isn’t going to know Drake Malford from … Dingo Malarky.”

“Dingo Malarky?”

“See? It could have been worse.”

“This is ridiculous.” She put her hands on her hips. 

“What?” he protested. “The Council just told me to come up with alternate names. They didn’t say the names had to be radically different. Or particularly creative. I just went with the first thing that came to my mind.”

“Obviously.” 

“Look, it’s a moot point. Let’s just get this over with.” Dean fiddled with his ID badge. “Hopefully it’ll go better than my meeting with Tulip.” 

“Fine.”

Hermione rubbed her temples. This new assignment was going to drive her absolutely batty.

\--------------------------

“Mr. Malford? You have some visitors.” Nurse Ortega adjusted his bed so that he was in a sitting position. She handed him a cup of water and plunked a straw into it. 

He felt much better today. His headache had dulled into an almost genial throbbing. He could keep his eyes open for hours at a time now. His throat was still sore, but his voice was growing stronger. His memory, however, was still a complete blank.

Two people walked into the room and flashed their badges at the Nurse, who then smiled at Drake and left. Both wore dark blue suits. 

“I’m Detective Thompson,” the male said. “This is my associate, Ms. Ranger. We’re here to talk to you about your situation.”

Drake said nothing. He eyed them both carefully. After all, they were the only people besides the hospital staff that he had seen in … well, as long as he could remember.

“Can you talk, Mr. … er … Malford?” the female asked.

“Yes.” 

“Good.”

Drake took a sip of water.

“So,” the man began. He seemed slightly unnerved. Both of them did, actually. “Uhm, I’m sure you’re wondering why we are here.”

“Yes. I’m also somewhat curious,” he said flatly, sipping more water, “about a few other facts.”

“All in good time, Mr. Malford. First, the basics. Do you know your name?”

“It seems to be Drake Malford.” 

The male looked at the female, who looked down at her shoes.

“Right, yes,” the male said. “Do you know where you are?”

“From where I am sitting, it certainly does look like a hospital.”

“Yes, yes. And do you know what day it is?”

“Haven’t a clue. Look, Detective Thomas, is it?”

“Thompson,” he stressed carefully. “Don Thompson.”

“Yes. Detective Thompson. Let me make this easy on you. I have abso-fucking-lutely no fucking memory of fucking _anything_. You’ll pardon my language, of course, seeing as how I just saved you approximately fifty thousand hours’ worth of useless questions.”

“Look here you ferr…” 

“I understand,” the woman said pointedly, cutting Thompson off, “how frustrated you must be, Mr. Malford. Let me explain a bit.”

Drake turned his eyes to her and settled back on the pillow, exhausted from his outburst. She took the seat next to his bedside and placed a sealed manila envelope on his nightstand. She had large brown eyes and an unruly mass of hair that surrounded her face in a frizzy halo. 

“You suffered a very serious head trauma that has caused you permanent memory loss. The doctors expect that aside from this problem, you will have no other lasting negative effects from your injury.”

She paused. Drake assumed she was giving him a moment to react. He remained impassive. She seemed somewhat flustered, but continued.

“This head trauma was not an accident. You were a witness to a particularly brutal crime. You agreed to testify against the perpetrator. Your testimony helped to secure a life sentence for this criminal. However, one of his partners on the outside decided to exact revenge by assaulting you. The assault has caused your memory loss.”

“I see.”

“Because this perpetrator was part of an extensive criminal network, we have reason to believe that if your whereabouts were ever discovered, your life will be in jeopardy. For that reason, you have been placed in the Witness Relocation Program.”

“Your memory loss is actually quite a blessing, Mr. Malford,” Thompson said.

Drake slowly fixed his gaze on the detective. The woman shifted in her chair uncomfortably. “A … blessing, did you say?” 

“Well, yes. So much easier for you now to assume a new identity and all.”

“Detective Thompson,” he began, pausing to sip more water. “If I had more than an ounce of strength right now, I would most assuredly climb out of this bed and shake you violently.” He had meant his voice to sound menacing; it just sounded tired.

“Detective Thompson, why don’t you go get us some tea?” the woman said, giving her associate a rather sharp look. He hesitated, grumbled, and then left.

Drake closed his eyes and rubbed his forehead.

“I know this is a lot to take, Mr. Malford. I … I’m sorry.” It sounded difficult for her to say. “Do you … er … have any questions?”

“Thousands.”

“Would you like to …”

“When can I get out of here?” he interrupted.

“As long as the doctors say it’s alright, you can leave tomorrow. We’ve set you up with a flat and a new job. The envelope over here,” she nodded towards the nightstand, “has all the official documents you will need, plus an official biography.”

“An official biography?” 

“Yes … you know … where you grew up, why you’ve chosen this career, your family history, and so on.”

“All lies, of course.”

“Yes.”

“Well then.”

“Your flat will be fully furnished, all new clothes. We’re working on a car …” her voice trailed off.

“Lovely. Like winning the bloody lottery.”

“Mr. Malford, I …”

“Look, Ms. … what was your name again?”

“Granger,” she said quickly. He thought that she looked like she had swallowed some sort of insect when she said it, almost as if she meant to take it back.

“Ms. Granger, I’m very tired. If you don’t mind?” He nodded toward the door.

“Oh yes. Yes of course. You should get some rest. But I’ll be dropping by your new home once you’ve gotten settled.”

“Checking up on me to make sure I’m keeping my story straight?”

“No. I’m a social worker. I’ll be visiting you periodically to see how you are adjusting to your new life.”

“Bloody fucking brilliant,” he muttered.

She picked up her briefcase and got up to leave.

“Ms. Granger?”

“Yes?”

“The man whom I put in jail. Was he some sort of thief?”

“I don’t have that information, Mr. Malford. But even if I did, I doubt I’d be at liberty to tell you.”

“Of course.” 

“What made you think that?”

“They say I’ve been in a coma for weeks. I don’t remember any of it, but I could swear I’d heard people in here talking about muggers.”

“Probably just a dream.”

“I suppose,” he said. He lay back on his pillow and closed his eyes.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wherein we learn some backstory

**Friday**

“What do you mean you need a new ID?” Dean asked once they were safely back in the office.

“I accidentally told him my name was Granger.”

“What!?” Dean exploded. “How could you make a mistake like that?”

“Gee, Dean, I’m not sure. It being so radically different from ‘Ranger’ and all.”

Dean muttered something under his breath that sounded suspiciously like “Bloody genius my arse.”

“Anyway,” Hermione continued, “you’re the one who said it didn’t really matter.”

“Still,” Dean protested weakly.

“And while we’re on the subject of saying idiotic things, what the hell kind of line is ‘Your memory loss is actually quite a blessing’? That has to be one of the single stupidest things I’ve ever heard.”

“Yeah,” Dean admitted, somewhat cowed. “Ol’ Tulip didn’t like that one much either.”

“You’ve used that line _before_? And you decided, based on your success with that line, to use it _again_?”

Dean shrugged. “Come off it, Hermione. Who bloody cares? This set-up is more than they deserve anyway. They should all be in Azkaban after what they’ve done. Not given a brand spanking-new life as Muggles.”

“Dean, Azkaban is …”

“I know, I know.”

“Some of them are in Azkaban because they deserve to be there. But Narcissa, Draco, Blaise, and Pansy showed remorse.”

“Remorse my arse. Ferret Face and his Mommy were holed up in Malfoy Manor passing information to the Death Eaters.”

“We don’t have proof of that.”

“His father …”

“Lucius Malfoy is dead.”

“And how did he die?”

Hermione rolled her eyes. “Just because Lucius was still waging an open war does not necessarily mean that Narcissa and Draco were conspiring with him.”

“Then why didn’t we just leave them be? Why bring them in at all?”

“You know why.” She propped her hands up on her hips. 

“You don’t seem to,” he said bitterly.

She _did_ know why. The Death Eaters, who had crawled into their holes after Voldemort’s defeat, had begun to reorganize. Some of them, like Lucius Malfoy, had launched open strikes against the Order. Others worked in secret, feeding information to those on the front lines, or using their homes as training posts. Although those who openly participated in the attacks were easy to recognize, the ones who provided less tangible support were more difficult to sniff out. So while there was no proof that Narcissa, Draco, Blaine, and Pansy were presently collaborating with the other Death Eaters, the Order had legitimate reasons to believe that everyone would be a lot safer if the Ministry took care of them somehow. 

“Even if you don’t think we should have thrown them in prison,” Dean continued, “you bloody well have to admit that they could have come up with something better than this.”

“Perhaps.” Hermione began rummaging through a stack of files, eager to end the conversation. “So that new ID?” 

“Yeah, I’ll get on it.”

“Thanks. See you tomorrow. I’ll take care of the paperwork.”

“No arguments,” Dean said, mollified. He handed her the contents of his briefcase and left the office.

Hermione exhaled deeply and plunged into a chair as soon as she was alone. _Was_ this too lenient of a punishment? She knew that some argued for more harsh treatment of erstwhile Voldemort supporters, but Hermione herself was fiercely against the torture and imprisonment that others had suggested. Of course, just letting people like Draco Malfoy simply re-enter Wizard society with no acknowledgement of his crimes struck even the most forgiving souls as gravely unjust. The decision was left to six of them—a team dubbed the Sanctioning Council. After weeks of debate, one of them—and by this point, Hermione had forgotten exactly who it was—suggested that the lot be obliviated. 

While most of the Council were in favor of this idea, there was some debate as to how much “rewiring” of the subjects’ minds would, could, or should be done after the initial obliviation.

“They’re _people_ ,” Hermione had hotly protested, “not machines. We can’t simply erase their minds and rewrite them as we’d like.”

“Good enough for your parents, but not for the Malfoys?” Ron asked. Hermione shot him a poisonous glance. She knew he was still rather grumpy over their recent break-up, but even so, that was a low blow. 

“I was protecting my parents.” Her voice was fringed with ice. “I reversed the spell after they were safe. It was only temporary. This is going to be permanent. Re-writing someone’s mind to your own liking is worse than slavery. It deprives them of free will. It’s sick, and I will not be a part of it.” 

“Really? You know what I think is sick?” Ron had asked. “Hating people for their blood status and being a Death Eater.” 

Hermione had been fully prepared to launch into a spirited defense of her position, but Harry had spoken up instead. “In some ways, killing them would be more humane than just reprogramming them.”

“Now someone is finally talking sense here,” Ron interjected.

“But Hermione is right,” Harry said. “We can’t do that. We’re better than that. All of us.” He shot a pointed look at Ron, who sank into his robes a bit. “Erasing their memories of the past is one thing. Determining their futures is another.”

After several more days of discussion, a compromise was reached: the Relocated, as they came to be known, would be cast with _rescripso_ , a variant of the obliviation spell. All memories of their lives as witches and wizards were erased. Each of the Relocated was then retrofitted with a general understanding of the Muggle world. They might know, for example, how to drive a car, but not when they learned to drive. They would know what snow looked like, or how to operate a DVD player, but would have no idea whether they fancied skiing or what kinds of movies they enjoyed best. It was yet to be determined how much of the subject’s personality remained after the spell—although, Hermione reasoned, Draco’s outburst in the hospital might serve as some indication. 

Upon being hit with the spell, the subject fell into a deep sleep that would last several months, allowing the magic to ample time to work. The subject would then be brought to a Muggle hospital and fed the story about witnessing a crime. The Relocated would be given everything necessary to begin a new life as a Muggle: a job, a furnished flat, a bit of starter cash. The rest of their lives were up to them. 

Of course, the Council would keep close watch over the Relocated … just in case. There was no such thing as certainty or absolute safety when it came to these individuals. 

Case in point: Draco Malfoy had woken up after only three weeks and two days instead of the typical two to three months. This worried Hermione slightly, but judging by his reactions  
today, the _rescripso_ seemed to have worked. And her assignment as his “social worker” would allow her to keep tabs on him in the weeks to come. 

According to Draco’s relocation file, he was now an accountant who worked at a medium-sized medical supply firm in a suburb of London, close to the hospital where he was staying. Keeping Draco in England had been Harry’s idea: he thought it best to keep Draco close. Making Draco an accountant had been Hermione’s idea. After all, Draco had always had an affinity for money. When Ron had suggested that all of the Relocated be given jobs as outhouse-cleaners, Hermione, had been quick to point out that doing so would make the job of cleaning outhouses seem like a punishment, which would thus insult those citizens who presently worked as outhouse-cleaners.

“Your heart is so bloody … bloody … that it’s a wonder it doesn’t bleed all over your bloody robes,” Ron had said sourly. 

In the end, each of the Relocated were given jobs that the Council thought would suit them. This way, Hermione had argued, if their personalities were somehow hard-wired into them, they would have an easier time assimilating into their new lives. Thus, Narcissa Malfoy became a professional party-planner in South Beach, Miami. Pansy Parkinson was a personal shopper for some exceedingly wealthy families in Brisbane. Blaise Zabini worked in a high-end leather goods store just outside of Florence. 

Thus far, the plan seemed to be working. Aside from some initial difficulty in Pansy’s case—and now that Hermione had witnessed Dean’s bedside manner, she understood from whence the difficulty arose—the Relocated had integrated themselves fairly smoothly. Judging from Dean’s last report, Narcissa actually seemed to be genuinely _happy_ , something Hermione had never even thought possible. Her last party for a Muggle rap artist had been such a success that she was booked for the next eight months. And while Hermione did understand Ron’s indignation that people like Narcissa Malfoy should ever be allowed to enjoy life when they had been such disgusting individuals, she couldn’t help but feel a bit sorry for them, especially after today’s visit to Draco. 

It had been quite disconcerting to see Draco in the hospital. The last time she had seen him, he had been restrained by a binding charm, sitting on the floor of a bare room, waiting to receive the _rescripso_. His jaw had been set, his eyes gleaming with hatred as the spell was cast. After a few moments, he fell into a coma-like sleep. He was kept for observation for a few days, then delivered to a Muggle hospital by Dean, who spun the requisite story about the witness protection program and gave every member of the hospital staff his card so that they could contact him when the patient awoke. The card, of course, had been charmed so that all who touched it accepted Dean’s story as the truth. Any questions they might have about discrepancies in his story slipped from their heads like water through a sieve. 

No one in the wizarding world knew exactly what was going on. The official word from the Ministry was that the offending parties were being dealt with a just manner, but there were no other details released to the public. Rumors abounded, however. Some thought that the offenders had been put to death; another popular opinion was that they had been transmogrified into lizards. Of course, Hermione realized, if any witches or wizards ever stumbled across an ad for _Nerissa Maffloy’s_ party-planning services, the cat would likely come out of the bag.  
No matter. What was done was done. And so far, everything had been fine. But Hermione was definitely glad when the Council suggested she team up with Dean to keep tabs on Draco. Even if he had not woken up startlingly soon, she would still be wary. He was, after all, Draco Malfoy. 

So when Hermione had first stepped into Draco’s hospital room, she was not entirely sure what to expect. He seemed weak, and confused, but also oddly … collected. According to  
Dean’s reports, the other Relocated reacted to their situations with tears, denial, anger, heart-wrenching sobs, and, in Pansy’s case, several water glasses hurled in Dean’s general direction, but Draco had seemed almost nonplussed by the information.

This made Hermione suspicious. But in a way, it also made her slightly sad. Draco—whatever kernel of Draco remained, that is—seemed completely willing to accept the fact that his memories were gone and that he was utterly alone. She quickly quashed this spark of pity by remembering who he was—Draco Malfoy. And it was her job to pay him a visit six days from now. She sighed and shoved all of the papers into a large messenger bag. This was not going to be easy.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Five Thursdays

**First**

She did not want to knock on this door. A bizarre kind of anxiety was poised like a clenched fist inside of her stomach. Seeing him in the hospital had been one thing; visiting him in his flat was altogether different.

What if he had their plot figured out? What if he were laying in wait inside, ready to stab her with a kitchen knife the second she crossed the threshold? Her wand was tucked inside of her briefcase, and she knew she could reach it within a few seconds if she needed it, but what if she didn’t _have_ seconds? She shook her head and drew in a deep breath. All of that was silly. There was no reason to believe that Draco would be any different from any of the other Relocated. He had woken up early, but that was it. She would walk into his door, ask him a few questions, take notes, and then leave. It would be strange, but it wouldn’t be dangerous. He wasn’t Draco Malfoy: bully, attempted murderer, Death Eater. He was Drake Malford: mild-mannered accountant. At least, she hoped so. 

So she knocked. 

He was not brandishing any sort of weapon when he opened the door. He was, however, giving her one of the most unwelcoming looks she’d ever received. 

“Hello, Mr. Malford.”

“Yes?” He leaned against the doorframe.

“I’m … your social worker. You met me at the hospital.”

“I remember.”

“I’m here to … talk with you … about …”

“I really have nothing to say.”

“I’d still like to talk to you.”

“You’re going to have a very one-sided conversation, Ms. Granger.” 

“So be it.”

“You’re not going to go away, are you?” he sneered.

“No.”

He exhaled gruffly and walked away from the door. She decided to interpret this as an invitation inside. Closing the door behind her, she surveyed his flat. A miniscule foyer led into a living room. An overstuffed navy-blue recliner flanked a brown corduroy sofa, which faced a small television. A dark wooden coffee table lay bare except for a single glass coaster. The walls were an innocuous shade of cream that matched the similarly innocuous beige of the carpet. A floor lamp and an empty bookshelf stood in the corner. The walls were decorated with two generic landscape paintings that looked like they had been stolen from a hotel room. From the living room, she could see a bit of a kitchen—yellow linoleum tiles, a white refrigerator, and the edge of a small table.

This was certainly a far cry from Malfoy Manor. 

He sank into the sofa and turned on the television. She took up residence in the recliner and retrieved a notebook from her bag.

“What are you watching?”

“I believe that you can also see the television from where you are sitting, Ms. Granger. Therefore, you should be able to deduce what I am watching by looking at said television.”

She scribbled notes into her book, recording the layout of his flat, what he was wearing, and everything he had said to her so far. So far, he had shown no signs of having any idea what had really happened to him, nor did he seem to recognize her as anyone but his social worker. He was being an arsehole, of course, but that was to be expected: Draco Malfoy was in there _somewhere_. That thought filled her with a smug sort of _schadenfreude_. The boy who tormented her and her friends, who hated her for her blood status, who tried to kill Albus Dumbledore: that boy was here, living alone in a nondescript Muggle flat. He probably ate frozen dinners in front of the television every night.

He changed channels seemingly at random, never stopping on a program long enough to have any idea what was actually happening. 

She thought about getting up to look around the rest of his flat, but realized that would be rude. And while she didn’t care if she were rude to Draco Malfoy, she had to remember that he was technically not Draco Malfoy. Furthermore, she was supposed to be his social worker, and thus had to maintain some degree of professionalism. 

“I like the way you’ve decorated your place,” she said politely.

He snorted at her and muttered, “Bloody idiot.”

“What?”

“You people decorated it for me. Remember?”

“Oh. Right. Well, how do you like it?”

“Feels like home fucking sweet home.”

“Good.”

“God, do you even know sarcasm when you hear it?”

She opened her mouth to fire back a retort, but closed it in the name of professionalism.

\--------------------------------------------  
 **Second**

“You know, it would make my job much easier if you actually said something once in a while.” She crossed one leg over the other.

“Yes, and my fondest dream is to make your bloody job easier.” He didn’t even look away from the television.

She bit her tongue and took notes dutifully.

\---------------------------------------------  
 **Third**

“Thank you for the glass of water.”

He grunted.

“Lovely day out, isn’t it?”

This time, the grunt was accompanied by an eye roll.

“How is your job?”

“Fine.”

“How is your boss?”

“Fine.”

“How is …”

“Why don’t I save you some time? I am going to answer every single question you ask with the word ‘Fine.’ Is that helpful?”

“Would you like to eat a cockroach?”

“How mature.”

“Thank you.”

He mumbled something.

“What’s that?”

“I _said_ that there are no fucking roaches in my flat.”

“I never said there were.”

“How much longer do you have to be here?”

She looked at her watch. “Thirty minutes.”

“Bloody hell.” The words left him like air from a balloon. He sank deeper into the couch.

“It would go faster if you’d talk to me.”

“Sounds like a solid theory on your part. Have you put much thought into that one?”

“Actually, I wrote my Master’s thesis on that exact topic.”

“You are such a …”

“No, I did. The exact title of my thesis was _Talking it Out: Ways to Pass the Time When Your Client is Being a Complete Prat_.”

He puckered his lips as if he were about to say something, but he didn’t, opting instead to turn on the television.

**Fourth**

“Good evening, Mr. Malford.”

He nodded at her and gestured for her to sit on the couch. There was a glass of water waiting on the table.

“Thank you for the water.”

“Whatever.”

She took out her notebook and pen. “So. How is your …”

“Fine.”

“Are we playing at that again?”

“Mmm, I think so.”

“Alright. What would you like to talk about?”

“Abso-fucking-lutely nothing.”

“This is going to be another very long hour, isn’t it?”

“You can go now if you’d like.”

“I’ve still got all of this water to drink.”

“Yes. By all means, savor it. It’s from a secret spring located underneath my kitchen sink. I’m trying to keep it very hush-hush. Wouldn’t want the neighbors to know that I’ve got the   
only tap in the building that produces potable water.”

She tried desperately not to smile, but failed in the attempt. Was she just … genuinely amused by something that Draco Malfoy had said? She busied herself with her notes to shake off   
the idea. 

“Have you met any of these neighbors?” 

“A few. While getting mail.”

“Do you think they know?”

“Know what?” He turned his head sharply, finally making eye contact with her.

“About … the tap. Under your sink.”

“Oh. Right. No. I think my secret is still safe. But one can never be too careful.”

“Of course.” She nodded gravely. 

“If anyone tips them off, they’ll be at my front door with all sorts of wrenches and … other plumbing tools … trying to dismantle my pipes and whatnot.”

“That would indeed be a tragedy.”

“Tragedy is perhaps a bit strong of a word.” He propped his elbow on the couch pillow and began to massage his forehead.

“Perhaps.”

“But it would be highly unpleasant.”

“Right.”

“So keep your mouth shut about how good my tap water is.”

“Will do.”

She scrawled something in her book.

“What are you writing?”

“Just a note to make sure I never tell anyone about your kitchen spring,” she said, eyes never leaving the page.

“Good.”

“See how much more pleasant it is when we talk instead of sit and grunt?”

He grunted in reply. 

She giggled. Just a bit. Then she covered her mouth, cleared her throat, and took a sip of water.   
\-------------------------------------------------  
 **Fifth**

He sat on the couch flipping through the television channels idly. There was never anything the least bit interesting on, unless there was a football match. There were no football matches today. Perhaps he could find a news show where they were discussing football instead. 

“Thank you for the tea,” the social worker said.

“Welcome.”

“Did you make these biscuits yourself?”

He rolled his eyes at her. “The bloody packaging is still on the coffee table.”

“Right. Yes. How silly of me.” 

She made some note in her book. 

“What the hell could you possibly be writing down? _NOTE: Homemade biscuits do not come in packages_?”

She ignored his comment. “How is your job?”

“Fine,” he sighed.

“Are you getting on well with your boss and co-workers?”

“Yes.” 

“Do you find that you are able to …”

“Look, Ms. Granger, is there any way we could do this over email perhaps? I’ll just drop you a line every day telling you that I haven’t killed myself yet?”

“Yet?” More furious scrawling in the notebook.

“Bloody hell,” he muttered under his breath. Wrong choice of words. “Look, I’m fine, alright? I’m dealing.” 

“Have you made any friends?” 

The look he gave her could have turned a hot spring into a block of ice. “Have I made any friends? This isn’t my first fucking day of kindergarten. I’m purportedly a twenty-five-year old   
man with a university degree. So I don’t need you holding my hand, wiping my nose, and making sure that I don’t eat the paste.”

“I’m just trying to ...”

“Bugger off.”

“Unfortunately, my job does not allow me to just bugger off at your suggestion.”

He growled in non-reply and continued to flip through the channels.

“And how are you enjoying your flat?” She did not stop, did she?

“Fine.” 

Ah! Highlights from a football match! This would have to do. He settled in to the sofa while she got up and wandered about the living room

“You have no books.”

“What?” He tore his eyes away from the television for a fraction of a second to look over at her. She stood in front of an empty bookcase.

“You have a bookcase, but no books.”

“Keen observation. Know what else? I have a brain, but no fucking memories. Funny, no?”

“You should still have some books,” she said quietly.

“I’ll get right on that. Soon as I recall what I enjoy reading. Oh wait, that’s not going to happen. Life sure is a bitch, isn’t it?” he drawled. 

“Yes, I suppose it is.” 

He said nothing in reply.

“Well, I suppose I should be going,” she said, looking at a watch that didn’t exist.

“Right. Thanks ever so much for dropping by.” He did not look up from the television.

“You have my card. It’s got my phone number on it. You can call if you need anything.”

“Fine.”

“Mr. Malford?”

“Mmm?”

“I’ll … er … I’ll be back next week.”

“Can’t wait,” he muttered.

She closed the door softly behind her. 

He turned off the television and dug the heels of his palms into his eyes. His little chat with the social worker had officially been the longest conversation he’d had with anyone in more than a month. He exchanged pleasantries with his co-workers and allowed the shoe-shine man to ramble on about the government, but in terms of actual conversation … that had been it. And he had been an absolute prat to her, as usual. Of course, she mostly deserved it for asking him such idiotic questions. But still. He picked up her business card, rotated it in his palm, and briefly—exceedingly briefly—considered calling her to apologize before deciding to take a walk through the park instead. 

He made his way to his favorite bench. It was underneath a rather majestic oak tree, and afforded a peaceful view of a small pond. He liked having discovered a favorite bench in this park. Favorite anythings were sorely lacking in his life. How was he to know, for example, which flavor of ice cream was his favorite? His first trip to the grocery store had been difficult to process. There were so many bloody _choices_. The ice cream section alone was so overwhelming that he had nearly left without any ice cream at all. But something in his mind assured him that he did very much like ice cream—it was almost as if there was a voice telling him that ice cream was a delicious, cold treat best enjoyed on hot days or when depressed. Therefore, because it was indeed the last days of summer, he should purchase the ice cream. But what flavor? He had no particular memory of eating any ice cream, just a general sense that ICE CREAM IS GOOD. So he’d chosen strawberry at random. And while it was indeed quite delicious, the entire experience had been rather disconcerting. 

But the bench was different. He knew that parks were nice places to sit and relax, or play with children, or go for strolls, but it didn’t bother him that he’d had no memories of Northgate Park itself. After all, according to his Official Biography, he had just moved here. So deciding on a favorite bench was not a daunting task. There were seven benches in the park. He sat in each one and decided which one was nicest. This was it. 

As he stared out on the duck pond, his mind automatically began to engage in the same circular thoughts that had been plaguing him for the past week: a constant battle between struggling after nonexistent memories and forcing himself instead to ask questions he could answer. 

_Do I have a family?_ How many ducks are currently swimming in the pond? _Where was I born?_ How many swans are currently swimming in the pond? _Who is my best mate?_ What is the ratio of ducks to swans? _How old was I when I had my first kiss?_ What is the ratio of brown-headed ducks to green-headed ducks? _How old am I now, for that matter?_ Would I like to go down to the bar and get completely sloshed? 

Ah, the easiest answer of all. He stood up, smoothed out his trousers, and left the park.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hermione gives Drake a book.

**Friday**

Hermione took a healthy sip of butterbeer. The Leaky Cauldron was relatively quiet for a Friday night; she, Harry, and Ron were practically the only ones there. This was both a blessing and a curse, as Ron adamantly refused to let her steer the conversation away from Draco.

“Ron,” she hissed, “must I again remind you that this is beyond top secret?”

“Relax. This place is deserted. So back to Ferret Face … how horrible is his flat? Please tell me it’s a right dung heap.”

“It’s not a dung heap at all. It’s no Malfoy Manor, but it’s comfortable.”

“Bollocks. What about his job? Tell me he hates his job.”

“Ron … can we please change the subject? Where is everyone anyway?” she asked, surveying the nearly-empty establishment.

“The Holyhead Harpies are signing brooms at Quality Quidditch Supplies,” Harry informed. 

“Ah,” Hermione said. “I guess what with Ginny on the team and all, neither of you have much of a reason to be standing in queue waiting to meet them.”

“Not really. Already met the lot of them. Mum had them all to the Burrow for lunch last weekend.”

“It was quite the meal,” Harry said with a smirk. Hermione looked at both of them, then stared down into her nearly-empty mug. Of course, she reasoned to herself, Harry would have been there. He’s Ginny’s fiancé. There was really no reason for her to be invited. Still, she couldn’t help but feel the slightest bit left out. But this was perhaps something she should get used to. She wasn’t Ron’s girlfriend. And while she and Ron were certainly giving “let’s be friends” a whale of an effort, she couldn’t expect to be invited to every Weasley bash. 

“So look, Hermione, now that we’ve established that we have this place to ourselves, you’ve really got to spill about Malfoy,” Ron said. 

“There’s really nothing to say. In some ways, he’s the same prat as he was at school. But I can’t really say anything snippy back to him, because I’m supposed to be his social worker. So he can be an absolute jackass to me, and I’ve got to be nothing but professional to him. That’s the worst part, really.” That was a lie. That wasn’t the worst part at all. It was frustrating, yes; she had bitten her tongue so many times that she had nearly drawn blood, but it wasn’t the worst part. The worst part was the tiny ember of genuine pity that gnawed at her insides. Hermione swallowed the last of her drink and got up from the table. “Now if you’ll excuse me, gentlemen, I’ve got a lot of work to catch up on.”

“Work? It’s bloody Friday night!”

“Yeah, Hermione. Why don’t you stay? Ginny said she’d drop by when they were done, and we figured we’d all go and get a bite to eat.”

“Thanks, but really, I’m swamped. This Council business has really caused me to fall behind in my work for S.P.E.W. And I’ve got to run some errands here in Diagon Alley before I get home.”

“Suit yourself,” Ron said, sounding more than a little annoyed. 

Hermione said her goodbyes and gathered her things. She was just out the door when she felt a hand on her elbow. She spun to see Harry.

“Ron nipped off to the loo,” he explained. “I … I just wanted to make sure that you were alright.”

“I’m fine, Harry.” Her face softened at his concerned eyes. “Really. This Malfoy stuff is just a little … strange, that’s all.”

“I can’t imagine. Look,” he turned back to look inside the bar, making sure that Ron was still gone. “I know this must be weird for you … for both you and Ron … but I think it’s great the way you’re trying to keep up at being friends.”

“How could I not be friends with Ron Weasley?” A genuine smile came to her lips as she said it. “I think it will just take some time before it feels … really natural. But I know it will get there.”

“Okay.” Harry said. He wrapped her in a tight hug. “And please know that you can talk to me about anything.”

“Of course I know that, Harry,” she said, returning his embrace. “But thank you for saying it.”

“I’d better get back. Have a good night, Hermione.”

“You too, Harry. And tell Ginny I’m sorry I missed her.” She watched him head back into the bar before making her way down the row of shops in Diagon Alley. She knew what she would end up doing if she allowed herself to go into Flourish and Blott’s, but she opened the shop’s door just the same. 

\------------  
**Thursday**

In truth, he mostly enjoyed his job. He liked the rows of numbers. He liked asking the intern to make photocopies. He liked drinking coffee at his desk. He liked going for short walks through the park at lunch. He liked taking his suits to the cleaners and having his shoes polished by the man on the corner. He liked coming home to his flat, changing out of his work clothes, and running as far as he could. He liked cursing himself for running so far when he still had to run all the way back. He liked forcing himself to do as many push-ups as possible when he got home, then an equal amount of sit-ups. He liked collapsing in a sweaty heap, eating whatever he had in the refrigerator, dragging himself into the shower, and crawling into bed. This was his routine. It wasn’t half-bad, actually. Then again, of course, he didn’t really have anything to compare it to.

On Thursdays, his routine was interrupted by her presence. He had seen this as little more than a nuisance for the first two weeks. When he came to realize that she’d be back the next week and the week after that, however, he actually sort of started to look forward to seeing her. She was the only person besides the plumber who’d ever been in his flat. And she was a far better conversationalist than the plumber had been. Not that he’d really given the plumber much of a chance. Then again, he really never gave her much of a chance, either. Maybe tonight he’d try to be a bit nicer.

She always arrived at precisely seven o’clock. 

At six-thirty, he decided that he’d probably better tidy things up a bit. 

At six thirty-eight, he realized that there was very little to actually tidy, and instead began to make tea. 

At six forty-two, he set out two mugs, milk, sugar, spoons, and a plate of biscuits.

At six forty-seven, he put the biscuits back in the package, lest she think that he’d baked them in her honor. 

At six forty-nine, he grumbled at himself for making such a fuss over the bloody social worker and put the cups back in the cabinet, the milk back into the refrigerator, and the sugar back onto the pantry shelf. 

At six fifty-two, he put the package of biscuits on the coffee table and ate one. 

At six fifty-four, he looked at his teeth in the mirror to make sure there were no visible biscuit bits.

At six fifty-six, he checked to make sure that the tea was still hot, and determined that some reheating was in order.

At six fifty-eight, he got the mugs back out of the cupboard, put them back in again, then got them out, then put them back. 

At six fifty-nine, he ran his fingers through his hair and used the reflective side of the toaster to check his teeth one more time. He got the mugs out again. 

At seven o’clock, she rang the doorbell. He exhaled, ran his fingers through his hair one last time, turned on the television, and opened the door. 

“Hello, Mr. Malford,” she said. She was wearing the same blue suit she had worn when he’d seen her at the hospital. Her hair was in a somewhat neat bun and she carried a shopping bag in addition to her briefcase. 

“Ms. Granger.” He stepped aside so that she could come in. 

“Your flat looks nice.”

“Same as it was last week.”

“Well, you’ve done an excellent job keeping it up.”

“Yes. Did you bring me a gold star sticker for that?” It seemed like his plan to be less snippy this week was failing. 

“Actually, I left those in my other briefcase—the one I use when I visit bratty children. Now that I think about it, I probably should bring that one when I visit you.”

“Does that one also have a notebook in which you scrawl every single observation about my personal habits?”

“If you are trying to insinuate that I am doing my job _too_ well then …”

He took out an imaginary pen and paper and began to mime the act of writing. “Seven-fifteen, subject scratched nose. Seven-seventeen, subject shifted weight on couch. Seven-eighteen, subject made …”

“For your information, I do not refer to you as ‘subject’ in my notes.”

“My mistake. What is it, then? Client? Case Number 38902? Potential Lunatic?”

“Not that I need to tell you this, but I simply use your initials: DM.”

“Well that is certainly a relief. I’m much more comfortable being reduced to two letters than to being thought of as ‘subject.’”

“Would you prefer that I write out your entire name? I most assuredly could. It really wouldn’t be much of a bother. Just watch.” She took out her notebook and scrawled on it, narrating as she wrote. “Seven-fourteen: Drake Malford acted like a huge prat.” She closed the notebook and glared at him. “There, how was that?”

He laughed. She looked somewhat disconcerted. “I suppose I deserve that, Ms. Granger. Would you like some tea?” She looked even more disconcerted. 

“I … uhm … yes, some tea would be nice.”

He went into the kitchen and poured the tea. Apparently, it hadn’t mattered whether or not the mugs were out of the cabinet, because she remained in the living room for the duration of the tea-pouring. When he returned, she was sitting on the couch, taking notes yet again.

“What could you _possibly_ be writing now?”

She looked startled at his words, closing the book hastily as he sat next to her on the couch. “I’m very thorough.”

“So it seems. Biscuit?” He pushed the package towards her. “Now if you’ll review your notes from last week, you will see that the presence of packaging denotes a store-bought, rather than a homemade biscuit.”

She took one from the package. “In retrospect,” she said, chewing thoughtfully, “I can’t understand how I mistook these for homemade. I can’t imagine you making anything that tasted this good.”

“Now, now, Ms. Granger. Who is to say that in my past life, I wasn’t a renowned pastry chef?”

“I suppose you’re right.”

“Was I?”

“Yes,” she said around a mouthful of biscuit. “I said you were.”

“No, I wasn’t asking if I was right. I was asking if I was a pastry chef in my past life.”

“Oh.” She took a rather large swallow of tea. 

“Let me guess. You don’t know, and even if you did, you wouldn’t be able to tell me.”

“That’s right.”

He should have known better than to pursue this line of questioning, but she was the only one he could ask questions like this. And even if she could not or would not answer him, just  
the fact that he got to ask them made things somehow better, even if it clearly made her uncomfortable.

“Look, Mr. Malford, I understand that …”

“Understand? How could you possibly understand any of this, Ms. Granger?” He thought that he was doing a magnificent job of keeping his voice even, considering the circumstances.

She said nothing in response. He saw her fingers inching towards her notebook. 

“Oh yes, by all means, please do make a bloody note of that.”

“I’m sorry. It’s my job.”

“Right.”

They sat in silence for quite some time. Images flickered across the television screen, but he wasn’t paying close attention to any of them. At least she wasn’t asking him ridiculous questions about his life and his job. 

“And how are you enjoying your job?”

“Of bloody _course_ ,” he said. “Let’s see … how about ‘Fine.’ Why don’t you write that down.”

She did.

“Oh, you know what? That’s boring. Let’s try something more extravagant … Hmm … where to begin. Well, I’ve been commended by my boss for excellent work on the last assignment. He’s a bit of a prick, but not as bad as he could be. My co-workers seem like idiots by and large, but they leave me alone most of the time, so that’s fine. There was a temp in the office this past Wednesday who had an absolute killer pair of legs, so I was going to ask her to have some drinks this weekend, but then I remembered that it would be nearly impossible for me to make any sort of conversation with her, considering that questions like ‘what’s your favorite movie?’ really seem to stymie me these days, so instead of asking her out, I simply made it a priority to avoid talking to her altogether. That plan really worked well for me.” He got off the couch, brought his mug to the kitchen and dropped it loudly into the sink. When he returned, she was standing at the door.

“Leaving so soon?”

“I …”

“Don’t you want to stay and hear more about how I’m adjusting to my exciting little life?”

“Look, I ...”

“Right. Don’t let me keep you.”

“I’m sorry.” She wouldn’t meet his eyes.

“For what? It’s not your fault, is it?” 

She pulled something out of the shopping bag and handed it to him. It was a large, rectangular object wrapped in blue tissue paper.

“What’s this?” His fingers barely grazed hers as he took the package from her. She finally looked up at him.

“It’s a small gift. Like a … late housewarming present.”

“For me?”

She nodded, but accompanied this gesture with a look that said, “No, idiot. For the _other_ person in your flat.”

He didn’t quite know how to respond, so instead, he tore off the wrapping paper.

“ _The Complete Works of William Shakespeare._ You got me a book?”

“It does indeed look suspiciously like a book, doesn’t it?”

He flipped through the pages. “Why did …”

“I can’t stand the sight of an empty bookshelf, Mr. Malford. Have a good night.” With that, she left his flat, closing the door softly behind her.

**Friday**

Hermione sat by herself at a corner table, surveying her surroundings. She’d never been to this particular bar before, but Harry had asked them to meet there instead of the Three Broomsticks. Ever since the Holyhead Harpies had made their promotional tour through Diagon Alley, it was difficult to go out in public with Ginny, who was constantly being asked for autographs. Ginny did not seem to mind in the slightest, and Harry had confessed that he actually enjoyed having someone besides himself be the center of public attention, but it seemed to make Ron rather uncomfortable. So until things settled down a bit, they’d agreed to meet at less well-trafficked locales. This particular bar, Hecate’s Hideout, had been suggested by Ginny. It was apparently a well-kept secret amongst professional Quidditch players. 

Wouldn’t it be funny, Hermione thought to herself, if they ran into Viktor Krum here? Maybe not “ha-ha funny,” but certainly “what-a-world! funny.” She smirked at the idea—Ron would positively squirm in his seat—but then stopped smirking as she remembered that making Ron more uncomfortable was certainly not the way to repair their ailing friendship. And in truth, she didn’t want to hurt Ron. It had been very difficult to break things off with him, but she knew it was for the best. She _did_ love him, just not in the right way. 

And what was “the right way”? Well, to be honest, she wasn’t sure. But she knew that it wasn’t the way she loved Ron Weasley. 

Seeing as how she had no idea when the rest of them were going to arrive, she decided to review her month’s worth of notes about Malfoy. The entire situation was just so utterly … bizarre. Just yesterday, she had sat on a couch next to Draco Malfoy, drinking tea and eating biscuits, as if nothing had ever happened. Of course, as far as he knew, nothing really _had_ ever happened. What made everything even more complicated was her job. In a way, she felt a bit like a double agent. She was really there on behalf of the Council, ensuring that the _rescripso_ was holding and that Malfoy posed no danger to the Muggle world. But as far as he was concerned, she was there to help him. Both of these tasks were made more difficult by the fact that Malfoy was, as expected, a complete pain in the arse. She had tried mightily to keep her tongue in check, but she couldn’t keep herself from sniping back at him. Her notes did not always reflect this. Her notes also did not contain any mention of the Shakespeare anthology she had bought him from Flourish and Blott’s small Muggle-book collection. Really, she reasoned, it wasn’t a huge deal. He probably wouldn’t even read it. She had only bought it because his bookshelf looked so dreadfully empty. 

“Oi! Hermione!” Harry called from across the bar. She waved him over. 

“Harry! Where are the others?”

“They’ll be here in a minute. Molly and Ginny were in a heated discussion about her wedding dress. I decided to duck out a little early. Just to make sure you didn’t get lonely, of course.”

“Of course. I’m sure it had nothing to do with the fact that you aren’t the least bit interested in wedding dresses.”

Harry grinned sheepishly. “How long have you been here?”

“Not long. See? I’m barely a quarter of a way through my drink.” She flashed him a grin.

“I can’t believe you are doing work at a bar. Again.”

“Alright, alright.” She tucked the file into her bag. “I was just reviewing some notes.”

“On Malfoy?”

“Yes.”

“How is that going?”

“Well … I’m not sure exactly how to …” But before she could finish, Ron, Ginny, and another witch apparated next to the table with a loud pop.

“Blimey!” exclaimed Ron. “Would you look at that? You even got the right table. Brilliant, Ginny!”

Ginny gave Ron a playful shove. “I told you so. I’ve never seen anyone so skittish about a little side-along.”

“Yes, excuse me for being slightly wary of having important bits splinched,” Ron muttered.

“Important bits?” Harry said, raising an eyebrow. Ron blushed several shades of crimson.

“Bloody hell. Let’s get some drinks.”

The group laughed as Ron pretended to be extraordinarily interested in a menu. 

“Hello there!” Ginny said to Hermione, seemingly noticing her for the first time. She wrapped her friend in a tight hug. “Hermione, this Geraldine Llewellyn,” she said, gesturing towards the other woman. “Geri is a Chaser on the Harpies.”

“Nice to meet you,” Hermione said, shaking her hand. 

“Likewise.” Geri gave Hermione a smile that looked a mite bit too wide. She had shoulder-length brown hair, dark eyes, and a stubby chin. “So Ron tells me you work for the Ministry?”

Ron tells you? “Yes. I actually work on quite a few different projects.”

“How lovely.” 

“Yes. Quite. And how long have you been a Harpy?”

“A little under a year now.”

“Geri is one of the best Chasers playing today,” Ginny said.

“One of? Bollocks. She’s _the_ best,” Ron added, suddenly emerging from behind his menu. Have you ever seen her in the midst of a Woollongang Shimmy? Poetry in motion.”

“Can’t say as I’ve had the pleasure.” Hermione said. She tried to keep her voice light and pleasant, but she wasn’t entirely sure it sounded that way when it came out of her mouth.

“Well you’re missing out.”

“So Ginny,” Hermione said, eager to change the subject. “Harry tells me you and your mother were discussing your wedding dress?”

“ ‘Discussing’ was a very diplomatic choice of words, Harry. I don’t think I actually got a word in edgewise,” said Ginny. “She is dead set me wearing the dress she wore when she married my father, which was approximately eleventy billion years ago.”

“You can’t be serious.”

“Oh, I’m serious. It’s got a revolting lace thing that creeps up your neck, elbow-length sleeves, and a gigantic ivory-colored bow that ties around your middle.”

“No!”

“Yes! And here’s the kicker—there is a row of tiny yellow birds embroidered on the hem of the dress. Every time you take a step, the birds sing, which sounds charming at first, but then you realize that you can’t even nip off to the loo without a bloody chorus of canaries announcing your departure.” Ginny pinched the bridge of her nose. “Why can’t my mother just listen to  
reason?”

“You’re her only daughter,” Harry said softly. “She’s probably just thinking about the sentimental value that this dress …”

“Sentimental value my arse,” Ron said. “It’s bloody hideous.”

Everybody laughed. Geri in particular seemed to regard this as the funniest thing she’d ever heard. She even needed to anchor herself on his arm to keep from pitching forward. Hermione gripped her mug very tightly. 

“Hermione, could you step outside with me for a moment?” Harry asked. “I just wanted to ask you something work-related.”

“And you need to step outside for that?” Geri asked.

“Some of what they do is highly classified,” Ginny said, giving Harry a dreamy look.

“Do you need me to come too, Harry?” Ron asked, half-rising from his chair.

“This is just about Hermione’s case, Ron. But I’ll … err … have some other classified things to discuss with you later,” Harry said. It was Geri’s turn to give Ron a dreamy look. “Sorry about this. Be back very shortly.”

Once they were outside the bar, Hermione took out her wand, prepared to cast a silencing charm.

“There’s no need.” Harry gently pushed her wand away. 

“But if we’re going to discuss …”

“This isn’t about him. It’s about _him_ ,” Harry said, gesturing back towards the bar.

“Who? Ron?”

“Yes, Ron.”

“What about Ron?”

“So I suppose you can tell that he and Geri …”

“Are an item?”

“Something like that.”

“Oh. Yes. Fine. Good for Ron. Moving right along, isn’t he? And with a real, live Quidditch star, no less.”

“Hermione, are you okay with all of this?”

“More than okay. I’m over the moon.”

“Hermione …”

“Well, yes, alright, it’s a little … weird. But I just want him to be happy, Harry. Honestly.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes. But if I weren’t? Then what would you do? Hmm? Tell him to look miserable for my sake?”

“Well, I … I don’t know.”

“Anyway, I was the one who broke things off with him. Look, Ron is going to make someone very happy one day. I’m just not that someone.”

“Why do you sound like you’re trying to convince yourself?”

“Because you’ve got banoffee pudding between your ears. I’m fine.”

He smiled at her. “Alright then. Guess I have to take your word for it.”

“You do. But Harry?”

“Yes?”

“Thanks for asking.”

“Of course. You want to head back inside?”

“Actually … I think I’m just going to go home.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. I’m dead tired. And I’ve got to get up early tomorrow morning to attend a conference on house-elf rights. So … if you wouldn’t mind, could you make up some excuse for me? Say I’ve got to attend to some emergency or something?”

“Are you sure? We’ve only just gotten here.”

“I know. But I’m sure. Okay?”

“Okay. Don’t work too hard, Hermione. And don’t let him get to you.”

“Which him?”

He raised an eyebrow at her. “The one you thought of first when I said that.”

Hermione forced a laugh. “Solid advice, mate. I’ll see you on Monday.” She gave her friend a tight hug and headed home. Solid advice indeed.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Drake quotes Shakespeare.

**Thursday**

“Hello, Mr. Malford.”

“Why good evening to you too, Ms. Granger. My, the rain most assuredly does _not_ agree with your hair, does it?” He smirked as her hands raced up to her head, frantically trying to smooth out the frizz. It was a fruitless effort. She mumbled something under her breath.

“Hmm? What was that?” 

“Nothing.”

“Are you going to stand there dripping all over my tiny foyer, or are you going to come in?”

“It’s either drip all over your tiny foyer or drip all over your living room. Your choice. Or you can get me a towel. Unless you don’t want me to contaminate it with my mudbl … my muddy, wet skin.”

“You know, my towel _will_ probably get dirty if you use it, but you see, there’s this wonderful machine you can put your laundry in, and when you take it out, it’s clean,” he said, walking into the other room. “It’s almost like magic, Ms. Granger.” He handed her a towel, a T-shirt, and a pair of running shorts. 

“What are these?” she asked suspiciously.

He rolled his eyes. “They are called dry clothes. Do you really need me to explain the concept of dry clothes? Because I will. If you’d prefer to wear your soaking wet suit, you can be my guest. But I might ask you not to sit on the couch.”

“Thank you,” she said through clenched teeth.

“Of course. You can change in the bathroom.” He gestured towards the back of the flat. “When you come out, I can go over the concept of umbrellas with you if you’d like. Magnificent inventions, those. Somewhat less magical than the washing machine, but still a triumph.”

“I know what umbrellas are,” she said from behind the closed bathroom door. “I just didn’t know that it was going to rain.”

“Ah,” he called to her. “Then I suppose we need to have a discussion about something called the weather forecast. Now that’s an interesting bit of divination we’ve come up with.”

“What did you call it?” she asked, opening the bathroom door a crack.

"The weather forecast. F-O-R-E-C-A-S-T.”

“No, after that. What did you describe it as?”

“Ahh … I believe I called it ‘a bit of divination.’ Are you trying to recall my exact wording so that you can record it in your notebook when you emerge?”

“Uhm … yes. Be out in a moment.”

“Take your time. I’m not going anywhere.”

He went to the kitchen and began to make the tea, trying desperately not to think about the fact that she was in a state of semi-nudity in his bathroom. He was also trying desperately to understand why his mind was so seized by this idea. Of course, he reasoned, it was merely because he hadn’t been with a woman in quite some time. At least two months, but really, who knew how long? He often wondered how much he’d gotten laid in his previous life. As with most things, he had a general idea of what sex felt like—exceedingly pleasant—but no specific memory of having had sex with anyone. The fact that he was now imagining rediscovering that particular pastime with Ms. Granger was simply a result of his long dry spell and the fact that she was presently undressing in his bathroom. And also perhaps because she was rather beautiful. The tea kettle began to whistle, snapping him out of that last train of thought. Relieved, he poured the tea into mugs. 

“Do you have a bag where I could put these?” she asked. The “these” she mentioned were her sopping wet clothes, rolled into a ball and perched atop his crumpled bath towel. 

His running shorts hung down to her knees. His T-shirt hung down to her mid-thigh. Even in such baggy clothing, the curves of her body were readily evident. He forced his eyes to move to her face, which was presently a deep shade of crimson. He immediately looked away and began to rummage in the cupboard for a plastic bag. 

“I’d, um, offer to put your suit in the dryer, but, um, probably dry clean only. Wouldn’t want to ruin it. Ah, here’s a bag.” 

“Yes, right. Thanks.”

Her hair was still a mess. He tried not to smile as he stirred milk into his tea.

“Why don’t you have a seat in the living room? Looks as if you’re now posing no imminent danger to my sofa.”

“Fine.” She gave him a bit of a glare, but did not yet leave the kitchen. Perhaps still angry about getting the once-over, he surmised. 

“I’ll bring some tea and scones.”

“Scones?”

“Yes. And not even from a package.”

“Did you actually bake scones, Mr. Malford?”

“No. I got them from the pastry shop down the street. But they’re still not from a package.”

She offered him a small smile and went into the living room. He followed with the mugs and a plate of scones. She began rummaging through her messenger bag. 

“Lucky you brought that instead of your leather briefcase.” he said, settling into the couch.

“Yes and no,” she murmured, surveying the wet, pulpy mess that was her notebook.

He gasped. “The notebook! The precious, precious _notebook_! All of your mind-blowing observations about whether I cross my left leg over my right or vice-versa! Ruined! Oh Mother Nature, you are a cruel mistress!”

“For your _information_ ,” she said, a frosty edge to her voice, “I carefully back up each and every one of my report logs after every meeting. So all of my observations are safe and sound.”

“Oh thank goodness. You really had me worried there for a moment.” 

“I’m sure. Err … could I borrow a pen and paper from you?”

“Certainly not.”

“Stop being a prat.”

“Not a chance.”

“Mr. Malford …”

“If I give you pen and paper, what will you do with it?”

She looked at him as if he were a small, rather stupid child. “I would write things down,” she said slowly, taking time to pronounce each word clearly.

“Yes, exactly what I feared.”

“Will you please just …”

“Ms. Granger,” he said, reaching for a scone. “If you start writing things down, then this becomes a visit from my social worker.”

“I don’t understand what you’re …”

“Whereas if you don’t,” he said, dunking his scone into his tea and purposefully avoiding eye contact, “then this just becomes a visit.”

He expected a sarcastic retort about how she had a _job to do here, Mr. Malford_ , but instead, she also reached for a scone, and then said, in a voice so soft it was almost inaudible. “Alright, then.”

“Excellent. So how was your day?”

“How was _my_ day?” She seemed rather off-put by the question, but she recovered quickly. “Oh fine. Except for the part where I was caught in a torrential downpour.”

“Yes, that was quite a pity.”

“And how was yours, Mr. Malford?”

“No, no, that won’t do. You simply cannot call me that if you’re here for a visit.”

“What would you have me call you then? ‘Subject’?” 

He laughed out loud. “Touché.”

She smiled at him. A nervous-looking smile, but a full one.

“I insist you use my full given name at all times: Drake Octavius Malford.”

“Octavius? They seriously gave you the name ‘Drake O. Malford’.” She rubbed her temples.

“It’s something else, isn’t it?”

“You don’t know the half of it,” she muttered.

“What do you mean by that?”

“Nothing, nothing. So you’d prefer that I refer to you as Drake?”

“Unless you’d like to immediately proceed to cutesy nicknames?”

“Drake it is.”

“And may I call you something besides Ms. Granger?”

“No.”

“Shall I then make up any name for you that I fancy?”

“Absolutely not.”

“Well, let’s see,” he said, completely ignoring her last reply. “The card you gave me just listed you as H. Granger, so I at least have something to work with. Is it Hilda? Heidi? Helen?  
Holly?”

She glared at him throughout the guessing process. She was not playing along. This did not deter him.

“Hayley? Hillary? Hestia? Humbertina? Oh, I think I’m going to go with that one. Humbertina.”

“That’s not even a proper name,” she protested.

“It’s far more proper than having no name at all.”

“Why can’t you just call me Ms. Granger?”

“Because your name is Humbertina.”

Her face was a mask of gravity. He was completely determined to crack it.

“Perhaps I could call you Humbie for short?”

A tiny twitch at the corners of her mouth. Progress.

“Another scone, Humbie?”

She pursed her lips to keep them from turning upwards.

“Do you think the rain is going to let up … Humbie?”

“Oh alright, alright,” she said, giving into the smile. “It’s Hermione.”

“Hermione?”

“Yes. And I would indeed like another scone.” She crossed one leg over the other. The green nylon of his running shorts inched up her thigh.

“That’s a very pretty name.” He passed her the dish of pastries.

“I … uhm … thank you,” she stammered. She put a scone on her plate. “So how is your job going?”

“Oh no, none of that. We’re not talking about my job today.”

“Look Mr. Mal … Drake … even though I’m not writing it down, I still need to ask these sorts of questions.”

He sighed. “Fine. The bloody job is fine. My bloody boss is fine, my bloody coworkers are fine, the bloody interns are fine, the bloody flat is fine, the bloody …”

“And what of the bloody temp?”

“What?”

“The bloody temp. With the killer pair of legs?”

He sighed and tossed his half-eaten scone back onto his plate. “Oh. I don’t know. She left on Friday. I assume she is also fine.”

“I see. Do you wish that you had talked to her?”

“Don’t do that.”

“Do what?”

“Don’t get all bloody social worker on me.” 

“I wasn’t …”

“Yes you were.”

“Fine. I was. Must I remind you that I have a …”

“Yes, yes, I know. You have a _job to do_.” He slammed his mug down on the coffee table.

“I’m sorry.”

“No you’re not.”

“I am a little.”

He huffed in non-reply. 

“These are good scones,” she said weakly.

He turned on the television.

“What are they, orange?”

“Do they taste like oranges?” He asked.

“Yes they do.”

“Then yes, they are indeed orange. For fuck’s sake.”

“What is your problem?” 

“My problem? What is my problem? That is seriously the stupidest question I’ve ever heard. Granted, I can’t quite remember if I’ve heard anything that much stupider, considering that I’ve only got about two months’ worth of memories in my head right now.” He flipped through the channels angrily, barely taking the time to notice what was on one before changing to another. Huzzah! Football highlights. “Can’t believe they lost that one,” he said, nodding towards the television. “Fucking worst keeper in the league.”

“Drake, I … what did you say?”

“Did I offend your tender ears? I thought I’d desensitized you to that by now.”

“Not that. What did you call him? The football player?”

“The. Fucking. Worst. Goalkeeper. In. The. League,” he repeated slowly. 

“Oh.”

The highlights of the game ended, replaced by some idiot in suit blathering about the economy. He turned off the set and they sat in silence. It started to make him uncomfortable.

“Yes, I wish that I had talked to the temp?” He finally said. “Alright? I do. Is that the answer you’re looking for? I never even learned her sodding name.”

“Why not?”

“Because I had nothing to say to her.” And, he added silently, because I am a coward.

“You really should get to know some other people, Drake.”

“Yes, well, I really should get to know myself first, shouldn’t I?” He had meant this to come off as aloof and sarcastic; he realized too late that it just sounded pathetic.

“I suppose you have a point.”

He gave a short, bitter laugh. “Are you admitting that I am right? It figures you would do this when you don’t have a notebook to write it down in.”

“Even prats have to win sometimes,” she said. “Score one for Draco.” Suddenly, she knocked over her mug of tea. Luckily, it wasn’t particularly full. “Oh dear,” she said, blotting the small, but spreading, tea-puddle with paper napkins.

“Very smooth. In other news, I rather like that nickname. Drake-O. Sounds like something my mates might have called me in university, no?”

“Yes, maybe,” she said hastily. “Sorry about your coffee table.” 

“No worries.” He took the wad of tea-soaked napkins to the kitchen trash. When he returned, she was standing up.

“Bollocks. I knew you’d do that.”

“Do what?”

“Take my departure from the room as your cue to exit.”

“For your _information_ , Drake …”

“Drake-O.”

“I am _not_ calling you that.”

“You already have.”

“I’m not calling you that _again_.” She put her hands on her hips. His T-shirt bunched at the corner, revealing the tiniest bit of flesh at her side.

“We’ll see.” He flashed her a wicked grin. 

“As I was saying … for your information, _Drake_ , I was simply getting up to see how the Shakespeare book looked on your bookshelf. But now that I am indeed looking at your bookshelf, I see that it is not there. Which means you once again have an empty bookshelf.” 

“Maybe I’m just trying to get more presents out of you, Granger.”

“I thought you were going to call me Hermione.”

“I thought you were going to call me Drake-O.”

“I’m not getting you any more presents,” she said, dismissing his last comment. “Not if you’ve already gotten rid of the one I got you.”

He looked at her quizzically. “I haven’t gotten rid of it. It’s in my bedroom. I read it every night.”

“You … you do?”

“I’d ask if you wanted to see it, but I have a feeling you’d think it terribly unprofessional to follow me into my bedroom.” 

She rolled her eyes, but the tips of her ears turned a fierce shade of scarlet. 

“Then again,” he added with a smirk, “I suppose it depends on what profession one is in.”

“My, your wit is truly razor-sharp tonight, isn’t it?”

“Again, it is a pity that you don’t have that notebook of yours. Someone should be writing these gems down.”

“So you’ve been reading it every night? I guess that means you’ve made it halfway through the copyright page.”

“For your _information_ , Granger,” he said, imitating her cadence perfectly, “I’ve already read three full plays.”

She looked incredibly dubious. “Oh really?”

“Really.” 

“And which, pray tell, was your favorite?”

“ _Twelfth Night_.”

“You’re kidding.”

“Why don’t you believe that?” 

“Because,” she said.

“Because?”

“Because … because … well, I don’t know. I suppose I pegged you for a _Titus Andronicus_ sort of fellow.”

He smiled at her. “Am I that bad, Granger?”

She smiled back at him. “I don’t know. Are you?”

“Your guess is as good as mine,” he said.

They exchanged a curious look. She laughed nervously.

“No, really,” she said. “ _Twelfth Night_?” 

“Really.”

“But why?”

“And what is her history?

“Come again?” 

“Orsino. To Viola.”

“I’m sorry, I don’t quite have it memorized.” 

“Orsino. He asks Viola to tell him about her sister.” He looked down at her, locking his blue-grey eyes onto her soft brown ones. “Of course, Viola doesn’t have a sister. She’s talking about herself. She had to erase who she was to become someone else. So when Orsino asks Viola, ‘What’s her history,’ Viola replies:

"A blank, my lord. She never told her love,  
But let concealment, like a worm i' the bud,  
Feed on her damask cheek: she pined in thought,  
And with a green and yellow melancholy  
She sat like patience on a monument,  
Smiling at grief. Was not this love indeed?”

If he wasn’t mistaken, her eyes had misted over just a tad. She blinked rapidly and then broke from his gaze, looking down at her feet. “I … should really be going now, Mr. Mal … Drake. It’s getting late.”

“Yes, I suppose that it is. Let me just get your suit.” He went to the kitchen and retrieved the bag with her wet clothes. “You can, of course, borrow my T-shirt and shorts for a little while.”

“Thank you.”

She looped the plastic bag handles through the strap of her messenger bag and walked towards the door. “Thank you for the tea, Drake.”

“You’re welcome.”

“I”ll see you in a week.” She opened the door and stepped outside.

“Granger?”

“Yes?” She turned back to him.

He took a deep breath. He had to give it a shot.“What do you say instead of you coming here next Thursday, we get some dinner instead?”

“No.”

“That was quick. You didn’t even think about it.”

“I don’t have to think about it. I can’t. You’re … I just … this is too …”

“Because it wouldn’t be professional?”

"Yes.” She sounded relieved that he had found the right words.

“I understand.”

“Good.”

“But what about this? Next Thursday, you come here, you ask me any three questions you want. I will give you straightforward answers without being an arsehole to you. It will be very professional.

“That sounds lovely.” Her eyes narrowed. “What is the catch?” 

“The catch,” he said, smirking, “is that next Saturday night, when there is no need to be professional, we get dinner.”

“No.”

“Lunch.”

“No.”

“Dessert.”

“No."

“Drinks.”

“No.”

“Drink. Singular.”

“No.”

“A walk in the park. In the afternoon. And you get five questions on Thursday. Without me being an arsehole. And if your notebook gets rained on, I will give you pen and paper without a fight.”

She breathed a heavy sigh. “I’ll think about it.”

“You do that,” he said, smiling. She looked as if she were considering smiling back at him, but instead opted to make a hasty exit.

Progress.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This chapter features information about wombats. Enjoy!

**Friday**

She did not sleep particularly well that night. Consequently, at work the next day, her eyelids began to flag by two-fifteen. By four, she was almost ready to pass out in a pile of files. 

“… don’t you agree, Hermione?” Harry asked.

“Absolutely,” she muttered. 

“Are you sure about that?”

“Mmm.”

“Because you did just agree that we should transfigure ourselves into wombats and spend the evening hunting for grubs.”

“That’s ridiculous,” she yawned. “Wombats are herbivores.”

Harry chuckled. “Burning the midnight oil last night, eh?”

“Something like that.”

“I can talk to Shacklebolt about getting your workload cut down,” Harry offered.

“It’s not that, Harry.”

“Malfoy?”

Hermione sighed heavily in response.

“What is it? Has he been giving you a hard time?”

“Not exactly.”

“Then what is it?”

“I don’t know, Harry.” 

How could she explain it all? How strange it was to sit next to him on a sofa? To hear him laugh and have it not be a hateful noise? To drink tea that he made? To put on his clothes? To wear his clothes at her house long after she might have changed out of them? To bury her nose in the shirt after she took it off, dizzying herself with the faint traces of his scent? 

“Give it a shot,” Harry said, settling in next to her.

“We can talk later, Harry. After work. I’ve got to finish with these files.”

“Alright. We’ll go on over to the Hideout together. I told everyone else we’d meet them there.”

“Sounds good.” She smiled at Harry and turned back to her files. 

But she couldn’t concentrate. Not now. Not when her mind kept drifting back to the way it felt to have her eyes lock onto hers, to the shape of his lips as he smiled, to the sadness in his voice as he recited Viola’s words. Not when her mind kept drifting forward to next week’s session. And to the walk in the park that most assuredly would not happen. Why had he asked her? Merely because he was desperate for conversation. That was all. More importantly, however, what had she been thinking when she told him she’d think about it? It had simply been a momentary lapse in judgment, of course. As for his “deal,” well, he’d answer her questions whether he liked it or not. After all, she had a _job_ to do, and his truculent attitude was not going to get in the way. 

\------------

“You’re not going to tell me, are you, Hermione?”

“Tell you what?” They were walking to the bar. Hermione had suggested they just use the Floo, but Harry was determined to get something out of her. And Hermione was just as determined to stay mum.

“What’s going on with Draco,” he said, stopping them in their tracks. “I know you, Hermione. I know when something is not quite right.”

“Nothing is right about this, Harry. Every week,” she said, lowering her voice, despite the fact that they had the streets to themselves. “I have to pretend that Draco Malfoy is bloody Drake Malford. It’s bizarre. And unnerving.”

“And?”

“And what? You’ve read my reports.”

“Yes,” he said slowly. “But I guess I don’t quite understand why this is affecting you so much. I mean, Hermione, after everything we’ve been through … sitting in a flat and listening to him prate on can’t be that bad. For goodness’ sakes, you were tortured by …”

“I know.” Hermione hissed.

“So what is it, then?” He made them stop walking. She looked at her shoes, then at the clouds. “Hold up a moment. Do you … do you _feel bad for Draco Malfoy_?”

“Shh!” she warned.

“There’s no one else here. And that’s not an answer,” he said. “Unless it is? Do you, Hermione?”

“I … it’s just … yes, maybe I do. Just a little,” she admitted. “I know it’s stupid.”

“It’s not stupid,” he said, squeezing her arm. “It’s who you are.”

She sighed mightily. “Thanks for saying that, Harry.”

“Why don’t you let me talk to Shacklebolt? I’ll see if we can get someone new on the case.”

“No!” she half-shouted. “I mean … I can handle it. Really.”

“But if …”

“And besides,” she added, standing up straighter. “He’s just beginning to trust me. We need someone Malfoy can be honest with. If he’s starting to crack at all, or shows any indication of being violent, we need someone in there who will be able to see warning signs before anything dangerous happens.”

“Are you sure, Hermione?”

“Yes. I really am. I’m just … I didn’t sleep well last night, for lots of reasons, so I’m a little frayed right now. But I can handle this.” She set her jaw and looked Harry dead in the eyes. “I know I can.”

“Of course you can. You’re Hermione Granger.” He gave her a thousand-watt smile.

She smiled back at him. Harry was right; it was just her nature to pity unfortunate creatures. That was all it was. Pity. How silly of her to mistake it for anything else.  
\---------------------

When they got to the Hideout, Ron was sitting at a table by himself, eyes buried in a copy of _The Daily Prophet_. Hermione was about to greet him, but Harry grabbed her   
arm and held a finger to his lips. His eyes had a mischievous glint.

“ _Volatus_ ,” Harry whispered, pointing his wand at Ron’s paper. The _Prophet_ suddenly took flight, flapping in clumsy circles around Ron’s head. 

“Bloody hell!” Ron shouted. In his mad dash to pluck the paper from the air, he knocked his chair over. The bar’s three or four other patrons snickered and turned to watch him. Harry and Hermione were nearly doubled over in laughter.

“A little to the left, Ron!” Harry advised.

“Very funny, Harry,” Ron said, finally capturing his paper. He righted his chair and sat back down, securing the still-flapping _Prophet/ _beneath one of its legs.__

__“Oi mate, lighten up. It’s Friday.”_ _

__“Yeah,” Hermione said. “Even _I’m_ ready to let loose. Look,” she said, holding up her empty hands. “I didn’t even bring any files with me.”_ _

__Ron’s face eased into a grin. “Really? Well this calls for a celebration, then. Butterbeers all around!”_ _

__“Where are the girls?” Harry asked._ _

__“They’ll be here shortly. Geri is helping Ginny with some wedding stuff.”_ _

__“Oh?” Hermione asked casually. “What sort of wedding stuff?”_ _

__“Damned if I know. Picking out flowers I think.”_ _

__“How nice.” Hermione tried to keep the bitterness out of her voice. When Ginny and Harry had first gotten engaged, she and Ginny had spent hours talking about what the wedding would be like. Hermione had even gone with Ginny to help pick out Harry’s wedding band. But ever since she had broken up with Ron, it seemed like Ginny had slowly but surely begun to squeeze her out of her life. At first she thought it had been to protect Ron, and that when things cooled down, Ginny would realize how much she missed her friend. Now it seemed that she, like Ron, had found an easy replacement in Geri. Hermione drew in a deep breath and clamped her teeth down on her lower lip. Okay, so she wasn’t being entirely fair about Ron. After all, she wanted him to be happy. And if that pale, stubby-chinned Harpy made him happy, then so be it. But Ginny?_ _

__“So how is old Ferret Face doing?” Ron asked._ _

__“Hmm? Oh. Yes. He’s fine.”_ _

__“I certainly hope by ‘fine’ you mean that he’s wishing he’d never been born.”_ _

__“No,” she sighed. “That’s not quite what I mean.”_ _

__“Bollocks.”_ _

__Harry couldn’t help but chuckle at his earnest disappointment. “I know, I know. You still think we’re going too easy on them.”_ _

__“You’re quite right about that. It’s hardly a punishment.”_ _

__“Ron,” Hermione said in hushed tones, “how would you like it if someone erased all of your memories, separated you from all of your friends and family, and just plunked you down in a completely foreign place?”_ _

__“I wouldn’t like it at all, of course.”_ _

__“Well then.”_ _

__“Well then nothing!” he exclaimed. “That’s not what’s happening with the Ferret.”_ _

__“That’s exactly what’s happening to him.”_ _

__“Not even close. You know why?”_ _

__“Oh, please do enlighten me, Ronald Bilius Weasley.”_ _

__“I sure as hell will. It’s not what’s happening to him because he doesn’t know that’s what’s happening to him.”_ _

__“So it’s not a punishment if you’re not aware you’re being punished?”_ _

__“Exactly,” he said, folding his arms._ _

__“That’s the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard.”_ _

__“No it isn’t. It makes perfect sense. What’s the purpose of punishment?”_ _

__“To serve the ends of justice.” Hermione said matter-of-factly_ _

__“Alright, that’s one way of looking at it. So how is this serving justice?”_ _

__“The Council decided that this would be a just punishment. He is serving it. Q.E.D.”_ _

__“The Council doesn’t know its arse from a hole in the ground.”_ _

__“You were on the Council, Ron,” Harry pointed out._ _

__“Aargh, don’t remind me. I can’t believe I let myself be talked into agreeing to this rubbishy excuse for a sentence.”_ _

__“What if we had thrown him in solitary confinement for the rest of his life? Would that have suited you?”_ _

__“Would have been preferable,” he muttered._ _

__“Why? It’s almost the same thing.”_ _

__“Like hell it is, Hermione.”_ _

__“Ron, he’s been exiled from our society, he lives alone, he’s got no friends, he’s …”_ _

__“No, here’s the difference. It’s not like Ferret Face is learning any sort of lesson. He can’t reflect on the error of his ways and realize what a horrible person he was and let that fact just  
eat away at him for the rest of his life.”_ _

__“I suppose technically you’re …” Hermione began._ _

__“Then again,” Ron interrupted, completely oblivious to the fact that Hermione was about to agree with him, “It’s not like the Ferret is capable of that. I’m quite sure he doesn’t have a conscience.”_ _

__“You don’t know that.”_ _

__“Are you actually springing to his defense?” Ron asked in bewilderment._ _

__“No, it’s just … Ron, think of it this way. The version of him that we knew was raised here, in that house, by those people. The version of him in that flat has had none of that. He’s a blank slate. And you know what? He can be a prat, but he’s not a terrible person.”_ _

__“Holy fucking _Merlin_ , Granger. Will you listen to yourself? This is ten thousand times worse than your crusade for the house-elves.”_ _

__Hermione’s eyes narrowed into slits. “What,” she asked, in a low, dangerous voice, “is _that_ supposed to mean?”_ _

__“Woah, woah, woah now,” Harry interjected. “Let’s just settle down here. Hermione, I’m sure that Ron wasn’t insinuating …” but before he could finish, Geri and Ginny apparated next to him with a loud pop._ _

__“Hi there,” Ginny greeted. She pecked Harry on the cheek._ _

__“You would _not_ believe the flowers your mum wants Ginny to have,” Geri said to Ron. _ _

__“Oh, they’re horrid.” Ginny agreed. “They’re the exact color of urine, and they smell like a pair of old…” she broke off, noticing the tension in the air. “Did we interrupt something?”_ _

__“Ron and Hermione were just having a debate about something work-related,” Harry explained quickly._ _

__“Oh. My, you certainly are dedicated to your job, Hermione, to be talking about it on Friday at a bar,” Geri said sweetly. She slipped her hand into Ron’s._ _

__“Actually,” Ron said, “I brought it up. But Geri’s right, let’s not talk shop.”_ _

__“Fine.” Hermione said._ _

__“And look, I’m sorry if I said anything too … inflammatory, eh?”_ _

__“It’s Ok, Ron,” Hermione said, offering a small smile. “If I had a galleon for all the things we’ve disagreed on over the years that we’ve known each other, I’d have a stash to rival Gringott’s.”_ _

__“Friends, then?” he pulled his hand from Geri’s and offered it to Hermione._ _

__“For life, Ron Weasley.” She shook it officiously before giggling and hugging him across the table._ _

__Geri looked a mite bit queasy._ _

__“Well, I’m glad whatever that was has been settled,” Ginny said, grabbing a mug. “Ron, why is the _Daily Prophet_ flapping underneath your chair?” _ _

__“Huh? Oh, that. Yeah, Harry thought it would be bloody hilarious to make it fly out of my hands.”_ _

__“It was pretty funny, if I do say so myself,” Harry pronounced, putting his arm around Ginny. “Ron was so engrossed in some article that he didn’t even look up when we got here.”_ _

__“You were engrossed in an article?” Ginny asked._ _

__“Don’t sound so surprised,” Ron huffed._ _

__“It must’ve been about Quidditch,” Hermione said, exchanging a knowing nod with Harry._ _

__“Actually, Miss Know-It-All, it was about the complicated economic dynamics between … Ok, it was about Quidditch.”_ _

__The entire table laughed._ _

__“But it was important,” Ron said. “It was Lee Jordan’s column. He’s usually pretty spot-on with predictions for upcoming matches.”_ _

__“And what’s his verdict for next week?” Geri asked._ _

__“Well, from what I was _able_ to read,” Ron said, shooting Harry a dirty look, “the Harpies are heavily favored over the Kenmare Kestrals._ _

__“Of course you are,” Harry said, laughing. He planted a kiss on Ginny’s head. “Because you’re bloody brilliant.”_ _

__“Aww, Harry,” Ginny said, snuggling against him._ _

__“Yeah. Both of you,” Ron said. Geri giggled and leaned against him._ _

__“Excuse me while I’m quietly sick behind the bar,” Hermione muttered, rolling her eyes._ _

__“You’re coming, aren’t you Hermione?” Ginny asked._ _

__“Hmm? To what?”_ _

__“To the match against the Kestrels, silly. It’s our last game in the UK for quite a few weeks.”_ _

__“When is it?”_ _

__“Blimey, Hermione, you are so uncultured. It’s next Saturday,” Ron informed._ _

__“Next Saturday?”_ _

__“Yes, as in one week from tomorrow. And after the match, we figured the four…er, five of us could go and get some dinner. You know, to celebrate our victory?” Geri added._ _

__“Wow, that does sound great,” Hermione said. “But I’ve got a thing for work.”_ _

__“You’ve got to be kidding me. On a Saturday?” Ginny asked._ _

__“It’s something special, Ginny.”_ _

__“Is it Fer … err … your classified project?” Ron asked._ _

__“Yes.”_ _

__“Ooh,” Geri said. “Top secret stuff. Well, we certainly understand. You’ll be with us in spirit.”_ _

__“Right.” Hermione wanted to punch her in the throat. “Would you excuse me? I’m just going to nip off to the loo.”_ _

__When she got to the bathroom, she locked herself in a stall and pulled the Muggle phone out of her pocket. She locked herself in a stall and cast a silencing charm around herself, then  
dialed Draco’s number. Mercifully, it went to voicemail. _ _

__“Hello Drake. This is Hermione. I do hope you’re ready to answer five questions without being an arsehole, because I’ve decided to take you up on your offer. See you next week.”_ _


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Draco serves cookies and answers questions.

**Thursday**

“Maybe I was a bloody pastry chef,” he said to himself around a mouthful of hot cookie. “These are fucking _delicious_.” He used a spatula to move the rest of the cookies from the baking sheet to a plate and lit the flame beneath the tea kettle. “In fact, Granger is going to be compelled to devote an entire page of her notes to how fucking delicious these really are. Aaaaaaaaand I’m talking to myself yet _again_. Bloody hell.”

He looked at the clock. Seven minutes until she would ring his doorbell. It wasn’t raining tonight, so there was little danger of her needing to borrow his clothing again, which was a pity, because he thought she looked far better in his shapeless running clothes than in her stuffy suit. He paused momentarily to recreate the brief window of time in which she was semi-naked in his bathroom. Only this time, he heard a voice call from the door.

“Mr. Malford,” the voice said, “could you give me a hand with this? I can’t quite get my bra unclasped.” 

The doorbell rang. Five minutes early! “Be right there,” he called. He sent his mind into overdrive, conjuring up the absolute least sexy images known to man in a desperate attempt to smooth out the front of his trousers. Once he was safely out of the woods, so to speak, he opened the door.

“Sorry I’m a bit early,” she said. “Hope it’s not too much of a bother.”

“Well, if you had been any earlier, there would have been quite an uncomfortable situation, what with the hookers on their way out.” He ushered her in. 

“Hookers? Plural?”

“I am a man of wealth and taste, Granger.”

“Why does it smell so good in here?” she asked suspiciously, setting her bag on the floor and rummaging through it.

“The hookers and I were baking cookies.”

“Of course. Silly me.”

“What did you _think_ I was doing with the hookers? Tsk tsk. You,” he said, walking into the kitchen, “have a dirty mind.”

“Yes. How perverse of me to think that one would have sex with professional sex workers.” She followed him into the kitchen. “So do I get to eat some of the hooker cookies?” 

“I suppose.” He handed her a mug of tea.

“Did you put …”

“Splash of milk, one sugar.”

“Thank you.” She took a bit of a cookie. “Mmm. I hope you paid those ladies well.”

“They left satisfied.”

She rolled her eyes and took her mug into the living room. “In all sincerity, thank you for making these. I can’t recall the last time I had a homemade chocolate-chip cookie.”

“You are quite welcome. Oh!” he exclaimed as she pulled an object out of her briefcase. “Wonderful! A brand new notebook. I am ever so glad that you found a suitable replacement for that last one. How many tears did you shed at its untimely passing?”

“Stop being such a git. We had a deal.”

“No, the deal is for me to answer your five questions without being a complete arsehole. I made no such promises for interactions that occur outside of the realm of these questions.”

“Fan-bloody-tastic.” 

“So ask away.” 

“Alright.” She settled into the couch, uncapped her pen, and took a sip of tea. “How has your …”

“Are you really going to waste a question asking me how my bloody job has been going?”

“Actually, Mr. Malford …”

“Are we back to that? What happened to Drake-O?”

“I’m being professional today. And you are not being an arsehole. And I think I’ve established that I’m not calling you Drake-O. So stuff a cookie in your mouth and let me ask my questions.” 

He took a large, obedient bite of cookie.

“Thank you. How has your sleep been since you’ve been here? Do you have strange dreams?”

“My sleep? It’s been lovely. But yes, I do have some strange dreams.”

“Tell me about them.”

“That counts as two—technically three—questions.”

“Actually, that response counts as being an arsehole.”

He held his hands up in surrender. “Yes, yes. Ok. Fine. This is actually a very easy question because I only have three kinds of dreams: the good, the bad, and the boring.”

She was scribbling furiously. “Go on.”

“Well, the boring is just that: boring. I’ll be at my job—which is, by the way, going just fine—working on a project, and at some point I’ll notice that the scroll bar on the right side of my screen keeps getting smaller and smaller and closer and closer to the top of the page. So it’s like the document I’m looking at is getting longer and longer as I read it. And I can’t ever make sense of the letters or numbers on the screen, but I’m determined to stay until I get the work done. Pretty boring, eh?”

“You say the figures on the screen don’t make sense. Are they in another language?”

“If they are, it’s not a language I know. Some look like sticks, others like little shapes.”

“I see.” Her brow was deeply creased. “Go on.”

“Well, the good dream is also always the same: I’m flying. Guess that’s a pretty common dream.”

“How are you flying? Do you have wings?”

“No. It’s more like I’m … riding something.”

“Like a … small plane?”

“No, I’m not riding _in_ something, I’m riding _on_ something. I really can’t ever see what it is, though.”

“And do you ever know to where you are flying?”

“I don’t think I ever have a destination. Sometimes I feel like I’m chasing something, sometimes I feel like I’m just zipping around for the hell of it. Either way, I’m always in an excellent mood when I wake up after those.”

“And the last kind?”

“The bad ones are the hardest to describe.” He settled deeper into the couch and stared up at the ceiling. “I never know quite where I am or how I got there, but I’m someplace that is half outside, half inside. I can’t explain it. I know that I have to do something terrible, but I don’t want to. Sometimes I have a gun in my hands, sometimes I don’t. Sometimes I think my parents are right behind me, then I turn to see them and they vanish before I even know what they look like. Usually, the dream ends when I myself am shot, or stabbed, or burned. Always in the same place.”

“Where?”

“Here.” He rolled up his sleeve and pointed to his left forearm.

She drew in breath sharply and scrawled like mad. 

“Do you think that means anything?” He asked. 

“I … uh … interpreting dreams really isn’t my forte,” she said hastily. 

“On to the next question, then. That was a softball, Granger.”

She smiled, but seemed somewhat unnerved. “Right. Uhm.” She cleared her throat. “Do you ever notice confusing or troubling inconsistencies in your daily life?”

“What kind of a question is that?”

She glared at him.

“Right, right. Ohh, is this because I suffered that head trauma? You’re making sure I’m healing up good as new?”

“I’m asking the questions here.”

“Oh alright. Well, no, not really. I mean, some things are a bit off sometimes.”

“Like what?”

“Like at work, sometimes I’ll look at something like the copy machine, and think to myself, what the bloody hell _is_ that thing? But then a fraction of a second later, I’ll remember that it is a device used to make identical paper copies of books or other documents. And then I’ll wonder how I ever forgot something like that. And then sometimes …” he paused, considering whether or not he should actually cop to the next bit. 

“What?” she asked. Her voice was measured and even.

“You’re going to think I’m utterly bonkers.”

“No I won’t. Just tell me.”

“Sometimes … I’ll look at a magazine or newspaper and think, ‘my, these photographs are broken.’ What does that even mean?”

“What do you think it means?”

“I have no idea. I guess the mystery criminal henchman walloped me pretty good.”

“Yes.” It looked like her pen was going to start smoking any minute now.

“Next question?”

“Have you made any friends?”

“No.”

“Not one?”

“No. Next question.”

“Well have you tried asking the folks at work …”

“Ms. Granger,” he said through his teeth. “I answered that one without being an arsehole. Please continue.”

“Alright. Question four.” She turned to a new page in her notebook. “Tell me three things you know about yourself.”

“Seriously? Are we back in first grade here?”

She raised an eyebrow at him.

“Alright. I’ll play along.” He took a moment to think about it. “But first, tell me this: what does it mean to know something about yourself? If I asked you the same question, what could you say with anything akin to absolute certainty? Sure you could say, ‘I know that my name is Hermione Granger and that I am a social worker and that I have a compulsive need to transcribe every single word that the dashing blond man on the brown couch says,’ but are those things you know or just things someone else has told you?”

“I don’t follow. I know that my name is Hermione Granger.”

“How do you know that? Isn’t that just something your parents told you, the same way I was told that my name is Drake Malford?”

“I suppose.”

“So while sometimes I am quite troubled by realizing that I don’t know what my real name is, when you think about it, what does it matter? It’s just another fact about myself that someone else told me. And I know that I am an accountant, but only because every day I go to work and they treat me like an accountant. If I went to work and they suddenly all said I was a bloody social worker, well then, that’s what I would be. God help me.”

“Well, putting aside any existential debates and knocks on the fine profession of social work,” she said with a hint of sourness, “can you instead tell me three things you’ve personally observed about yourself? Your inner self?”

He lay his head on the back of the couch and stared at the ceiling. “God, Granger. Give me a moment with that one.”

She waited, massaging her cramped right hand with her left.

“Alright,” he began. “I can tell you this. I like things to be neat. I like my bed made, my dishes clean, my desk organized. If you were to open my closet, you wouldn’t see a single article of clothing out of place. So that’s one thing I’ve discovered about myself. Does that count?”

“Yes.”

“A second thing … hmm. I like making food. Cooking. Baking. There’s something oddly satisfying about combining the right ingredients in the right ways and having something completely different come out of it. Maybe I was a chef before? Or a chemist? Who knows.”

“And third?”

“Third … I am … a …” Lonely, fucked-up bastard who barely understands how he makes it through every day? Man who is slowly losing his mind? So many ways to complete that sentence. “… football fan.”

“That doesn’t count.”

“Why not?”

“Because it’s not what you were going to say.”

“How do you know that?”

“I just do. What were you going to say?” 

“That will cost you your last question.”

She tried to stare him down. It wouldn’t work. There was no need for her to peer that deeply inside him. Telling her about his stupid dreams and the bizarre thoughts he sometimes had about the copy machine was one thing. Telling her what a lonely, fucked-up bastard he felt like most days was an entirely different matter. 

“Fine. Last question, then. Where do you see yourself in five years?” 

“That one is easy.”

“Do tell.”

“Sometime between now and five years from now, I am going to figure out exactly who did this to me. Then, I am going to locate that person and kill him. Then, I am going to find my family and begin to once again have some semblance of a life. You didn’t write any of that down, Granger.”

“I …” she swallowed, blinked, and then finally turned to her notebook. “I guess I just wasn’t expecting you to answer so quickly. And I certainly wasn’t expecting that answer.”

“Something wrong with that answer?”

“Well … Drake, what if you can’t do any of those things?”

“I don’t believe that.”

“Drake …”

“Let me rephrase … I _can’t_ believe that, Hermione. I just can’t. It is one of two things that allows me to get out of bed every morning.”

“What’s the other?”

“Ah,” he said, slowly easing his face into a smile. “But you’ve already had your five questions.”

She smiled back. “It seems that I have.”

He got up and walked to the door. Ordinarily, he would have liked her to stay a little bit longer, but tonight’s session had really taken it out of him. It was so much easier when he was allowed to be an arsehole. 

She picked up on his cue and gathered her things. “Thank you for the cookies. They really were quite spectacular.”

“I’ll pass your kind words along to my ladyfriends.”

“Please do.”

“Saturday, then?” 

“Yes. I suppose you’ve earned it.”

“What say you come by at one? The park is just down the road. We can meet right outside my flat.”

“Alright.” She slung her bag over her shoulder. “Thanks for not being too much of an arsehole.”

“Don’t get used to it,” he said with a smirk.

“I don’t plan on it.” She smirked back and stepped outside.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A walk through the park.

**Saturday**

Hermione couldn’t believe that she was fussing over what to wear. She was going for a stroll in the park with Draco Malfoy, not having tea with the Queen. On second thought, she mused, tea with the Queen would probably be far less stressful. On third thought, though, why exactly was she stressed out about this? And on fourth thought, she realized that to her mild horror, she wasn’t exactly dreading her walk with Malfoy. She was actually sort of looking forward to it. But only because it’s a good excuse to not go to that Quidditch match, she told herself. Oh, that was a lie. Just admit it, Hermione. You kind of like spending time with him.

“Bloody hell,” she muttered. She finally decided on a pair of dark jeans, an apple-green camisole, and a cream-colored cardigan. It was still fairly warm out for late September, but it might get a bit cooler when the sun went down. Not that she planned on staying until nightfall, but still … better to be prepared. She swept her hair up into a loose bun and stuffed his freshly-laundered shorts and T-shirt into her messenger bag, as she had forgotten to bring them back to him on Thursday. She would be glad to get rid of them … having them here made her feel rather uneasy.

The sight of his clothing brought her back to the disconcerting epiphany she had just had. She kind of liked spending time with him. She enjoyed their verbal volleys. She enjoyed eating the cookies that he had made. She enjoyed being the person who listened as he tried to sort out his life.

But she was rather worried. He was definitely experiencing significant contamination—for lack of a better word—by his former life as a wizard. She was certain, for example, that the figures he’d dreamed about on his computer screen were runes. And his dream of flight was obviously on a broomstick. As for his nightmare—well, she preferred not to think about that. 

If the dreams were the only red flag, then she might not be too concerned. After all, they were just dreams, and he didn’t seem particularly perturbed by the fact that he was having them. But the other bits—the magazine photographs, the fact that he had used the word “keeper” the other week. These things troubled her. He might just be able to chalk them up to head trauma, but she knew better. 

After she had gotten back from his flat on Thursday, she combed through the files on Narcissa, Pansy, and Blaise, searching intently for any sign that they’d experienced similar phenomena. But if they did, it hadn’t been recorded. According to the reports, all three of them had settled into their new lives with a minimum of difficulty. Blaise had initially shown some issues with depression, but he seemed to be doing much better now. In fact, according to Dean’s notes, “Mr. Zamboni has met a handsome young man named Pietro and is thinking of moving in with him. Furthermore, Mr. Zamboni has actually described his memory loss as a ‘gift,’ saying that it has helped him realize that you cannot take a single day for granted.” Dean also observed: “Despite this epiphany, he still mostly acts like an arrogant prat.”

As for Pansy, Dean reported that she found the “loneliness rather tiresome” at first, but after a few weeks began to develop a close friendship with the Bridgeports, one of the wealthy families she works for. Dean also noted that Tulip found great joy and companionship in her hobby—breeding show-quality pugs.

Hermione had nearly shot pumpkin juice out of her nose when she read that bit.

As for Narcissa, her business was still booming. When Dean inquired about her personal life, Narcissa had replied: “I don’t really have too much time for that, Dearie.” Dean then added: “Ms. Maffloy apparently did not think that I noticed her towel-clad gentleman caller standing in the kitchen and drinking milk out of the carton last week.” 

So none of them experienced any significant memories of their former lives, and all of them seemed to be achieving a degree of normalcy and happiness. Why was Draco different? Did it have something to do with the fact that he had woken up from the spell so early? Maybe they had botched it somehow? That didn’t seem possible. They had taken every safety precaution and quadruple-checked every element of the casting. 

Maybe he was just much stronger-willed than they had given him credit for. 

Hermione supposed she could petition the Council for a re-casting of the spell. But what would that do to him? What if he woke from that with elements of his life as a wizard and his life as Drake Malford bubbling together in his head? No, it wasn’t worth the risk. Not yet. She would simply have to help him better integrate himself into his own life. That was what had seemed to help Blaise, Pansy, and Narcissa. As for the troubling bits—Hermione would just have to keep her eye on that. 

\------------

A light breeze filtered through the trees as Hermione stood outside his flat. She shielded her eyes and looked up at the sky; a perfectly cloudless blue expanse stared back at her.

“Incredible weather, isn’t it?” 

She jumped a bit at his voice. “Where did you come from?” she asked. She turned to face him. He was wearing a plain white T-shirt and blue jeans. 

“My flat,” he said, gesturing back towards the building. “It’s that large brick structure right behind me. The one with the door and windows? Do you see it now? Here, let me move a little to the left.”

Hermione rolled her eyes. “This is going to be the longest afternoon of my life, isn’t it?” 

“You know what they say … time goes extremely slowly when you’re spending it by walking through the park with a handsome young accountant.” 

“Funny, I’ve never heard that particular proverb.”

“Hmm, obviously you don’t read enough.” 

She smirked at him. “Mr. Malford, there are many charges of which you could legitimately accuse me, but I assure you, being woefully under-read is not among them.”

“What happened to Drake-O?” 

“I am _not_ calling you Drake-O.” Not _that_ again. “Why are you so insistent on being called that?”

“I don’t know. But doesn’t it sound chummier than Drake?” They began to walk down the road. She’d never seen him in casual attire before … he was always still in his work clothes when she came to his flat. Hermione used this fact to rationalize her sudden interest in his clothing: it was simply different that what she was used to. It had nothing to do with the way his shirt stretched tight across his shoulders, or how muscular his bare arms looked as they swung by his side. 

“Chummier? No. Most assuredly not. Drake-O is not chummier.”

“’Drake’ is so stuffy.”

“Drake-O is just … just …” 

“What?”

“Horrendous.”

“That’s quite an overstatement, isn’t it?”

“How far to the park?” she asked, eager to change the subject.

“It’s just up ahead.” 

“Do you come here often?”

“Every day.”

“Really?”

“Yes. Sometimes twice a day. Once on my lunch break and once after work. Weather permitting, of course. Not all of us enjoy trolling around in the rain as much as you.”

“I do not enjoy trolling around in the rain,” she sniffed. “I was merely looking for an excuse to drip water all over your foyer.”

He laughed. She couldn’t help but smile at the sound. 

“Speaking of which,” she added, patting her messenger bag, “I brought your clothes back.”

“About time. I had actually begun to assume that you had adopted them as your own.” 

“Now what would I want with a huge, shapeless T-shirt and a pair of shorts that nearly reach my ankles?”

“Look, Granger, what you do with my clothes on your time is your business.” He gave her a wicked grin.

“I don’t even want to know what you are imagining right now, do I?”

He chuckled. “That depends.”

“I’m sure you want me to ask ‘depends on what?’ so you can give your coy, slightly perverted answer, but I’m simply not going to open that avenue to you. Instead, I will note the verdure of our surroundings and surmise that we have arrived at the park.”

“Your surmise would be correct. Welcome to Northgate Park.”

“It’s quite lovely.” It was. Her eyes were drawn upward to the ancient-looking oak trees, their leaves blazing orange and red. The autumn sun threw a burnished golden gloss over the softly rolling hills of grass. A small body of water glimmered at the park’s far end.

“A bit on the compact side, but there is a running trail that extends out from the park and goes on for quite a distance.”

“You run?” 

“It is indeed a hobby I seem to have picked up.”

“What are your other hobbies?”

“Oh no … today, I get to ask you some questions.”

“But you don’t even have a notebook,” she protested.

“I’ll just have to store it all up here,” he said, pointing at his head. A sudden wind blew a fringe of platinum hair into his face. He pushed it away. “Now. First question. How are you enjoying your job?”

“I rather like it. Except for this one prat I have to visit once a week.” 

“My, that does sound horrible. How do you bear it?”

“I’m not entirely sure,” she said, pushing a low-hanging branch out of her way. “But he does have enough sense to ply me with baked goods so that I don’t ask to be transferred off of his case.”

“Mmph!” He replied. She turned to see that the branch she had moved had smacked him in the face. “Thanks ever so much for that, Granger.”

She laughed. “Sorry.”

“Serves me right for letting you walk ahead of me. You don’t even know where we’re going!”

“Where we’re going? We’re walking through the park. Do you need a destination in mind to do that?”

“For your _information_ ,” he said in his Hermione voice, “we’re headed to a particular spot. Now back to my questions. What is your family like? Do you have brothers or sisters?”

“No,” she said. “Just me. I always wanted a little sister when I was a kid, but I could never quite persuade my parents. They got me a cat instead.”

“Well, at least you didn’t have to share your toys with the cat.”

“Shows what you know. He tore so many of my favorite stuffed animals to bits that I started calling him Shredder instead of the name my parents gave him.”

“Which was?”

“Mr. Cat.”

“How original!”

“They’re very practical people. Both are dentists.”

“I see. Did they give you any guff for eschewing the family business to follow your calling?”

“What? Oh, you mean social work? Oh. No. They’ve been very supportive.”

“That’s nice. How about your friends? What are they like?”

“What are my friends like? They’re like any other group of friends … nice, caring, fun to be around,” she said, choosing her words carefully. 

“Did you meet most of them at school?” 

“Yes.” She felt like she was walking in a minefield.

“What’s your favorite flavor of ice cream?”

“Strawberry,” she said, thankful that he seemed to be done asking personal questions. “Why are you chuckling at my favorite flavor of ice cream?”

“I can’t explain it.”

“Alright. Weirdo.”

“What is your favorite candy?”

“Chocolate Fr… Frosting. Chocolate Frosting.”

“You mean right out of the container?”

“Yes.” _Whew_.

“Disgusting.” 

“You asked,” she laughed nervously.

“What’s your favorite season?

“Winter.”

“Are you seeing anyone?”

“No.” Damn it! Why did he have to sneak that in there with all of the other stupid questions? And why hadn’t a lie come to her lips faster than the truth? Letting him think she was attached would avoid so many problems. She stole a glance at him. He wasn’t even trying to hide his smile. 

“How old were you when you had your first kiss?”

“My, we’re getting personal here, aren’t we? I don’t ask _you_ questions like this.”

“That’s because I can’t answer questions like this, Granger.”

“Oh fine. I was 15.”

“What was he like?”

“Who?”

“The boy who got your first kiss?”

“Viktor? He was … a nice fellow. A jock. A bit of a dolt, but a nice fellow. My, the wind is really picking up, isn’t it?” she asked, futilely attempting to pin tendrils of hair behind her ears. Leaves swirled around them. 

“I like it,” he said.

“Me too. I kind of feel like we’re standing in a snowglobe, but instead of snow, there are leaves.” Wow, that had sounded insanely stupid. She turned to him, prepared for the inevitable mockery, but he was apparently going to let that one slide.

“Here we are.”

“Where is here?” She looked around. “You mean at this bench?”

“Yes. This is my favorite bench.” He gestured for her to sit. 

“Ah.” She sat. It was a nice enough bench, but she didn’t quite understand its merits above the other benches in the park. She did have to admit, though, that the view of the duck pond was quite nice from here. The bluish-brown water lapped softly at the marshy banks. “What a pretty spot.”

“Yes,” he said, sitting next to her. “Although it’s kind of a scummy pond.”

She surveyed the water. There was indeed a good bit of goopy green froth fringing the shore. “I think the pond scum adds a certain amount of charm, don’t you?”

“If you say so, Granger.”

There were two or three swans paddling around at the pond’s far end. Green scum clung to their feathery white bottoms. “It does, however, seem to make the swans a bit less elegant.”

He laughed. “Doesn’t do a damn thing to the ducks,” he noted. 

“No, it doesn’t.” She leaned back on the bench and looked out over the water. “This is nice,” she said softly.

“I agree.”

“Do you think …,” she began.

“Shh …” he interrupted. “No questions. Let’s just sit. This way I can pretend that I’m just sitting here on a park bench with a pretty girl. Makes my life seem downright normal.”

Her stomach did a tiny somersault. He thought she was pretty? No, she reasoned; he was probably just saying that to keep her from asking him any more questions. Whatever his intent, she complied with his wishes. She watched the ducks swim in lazy circles, occasionally flipping upside down in search of food. But out of the corner of her eye, she was watching him. He looked happy—serene even—to be sitting here watching the waterfowl glide around the pond. For that matter,—and she couldn’t believe she was thinking this, but she was—she was happy to be here too, to be sitting next to him, to share this moment of quiet with Draco Malfoy. 

A chilly breeze made her pull her cardigan a little closer. Leaves rushed by in a spastic swirl. She reached up to smooth out her hair.

“Granger, you’re fighting a losing battle on that one.”

She giggled in spite of herself, plucking errant foliage from her messy bun. She was about to make an attempt at a witty retort when a high-pitched, joyous voice behind them cried: “Duckies! Duckies! Duckies!” 

She turned to see a small child—probably two or three years old—pulling her mother by the hand towards the pond. A limp, rather grubby stuffed rabbit dangled from her other hand. 

“Yes, Olivia. Those are duckies. And what do duckies say?”

“Duckies!” She exuberantly tossed the stuffed rabbit in the air. It bounced off of the other, much smaller, child strapped to her mother’s chest. The baby gurgled and waved a pudgy arm. 

“Please do not throw your Wubbie at your sister, Olivia.

“Duckies!” Olivia picked up the rabbit and pulled her mother’s hand closer to the pond. 

“Alright, just a little bit closer. But we can’t stay very long. Tess wants her lunch.”

Draco stood and walked over to the child. He pulled a plastic baggie out of his pocket and took out a small heel of bread. 

“You want to feed the ducks,” he asked? 

The child stared at him with wide eyes. She looked up at her mother. The woman looked at Draco, then at Hermione, and smiled. “Go on, Livvy. Take some bread.” She released the toddler’s hand.

“Here, I’ll show you,” Drake said. He broke off a tiny bit of bread and threw it into the pond. Three ducks swam briskly towards him, quacking in delight. The fastest one got the bread; the others nipped his feathers in contempt.

“Duckies!!!”

“Go on,” Draco said. He put the bread in the child’s rabbit-free hand. She looked at it soberly, still not sure what to do. “Throw it. Like this.” He mimed a throwing motion. The child threw the entire piece into the pond, and then began to giggle like mad as a half dozen ducks nibbled the piece into oblivion. 

“Duckies! More! More! More!” she squealed.

“Sorry, I only had one piece.” He held out his empty hands to show her.

“More! More! More!” She began to sound quite angry.

“That’s it, Olivia. All gone! Thank the nice man for the bread. Let’s go.”

“No go! MORE!” Then, seized by a fit of tiny rage, Olivia threw her rabbit into the pond. Before anyone could even speak, the wind blew it out towards the middle of the water.

“Wubbieeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee!!” she wailed.

“Oh Olivia,” the mother said.

“Bababababa?” baby Tess added, bouncing against her mother’s chest.

“Wubbieeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee!!” Olivia replied. Her face was rapidly turning the color of a ripe tomato. 

Hermione began rummaging through her bag, hoping to find some sort of candy or small toy that might distract the child from her grievous loss. All she found was a ballpoint pen, sugarless gum, and some paper clips, none of which seemed particularly appropriate for a distraught toddler. As she stood to dig through her pockets, Draco said, “Watch these for me, will you?” He had removed his shoes and socks and laid them on the bench. 

“What are you doing?” she asked.

“What does it look like I’m doing, Granger? I’m rescuing a Wubbie.” With that, he waded into the scum-laden pond. Another gust of wind blew the rabbit farther out. Draco pressed on, now in water that reached his waist. With one long stretch of his arm, he finally snatched the toy from what would have been its watery grave. He hoisted it above his head in triumph. Olivia's wails melted into sniffles. 

When he reached the shore, he gave the waterlogged rabbit a quick squeeze, releasing a rivulet of brownish liquid. He then handed it to Olivia, who immediately clutched it to her chest with a relieved “Wubbie! Wubbie! Wubbie!”

“Thank you so much,” the mother said. “You really didn’t need to do that. Olivia, thank the nice man.” 

The girl looked up shyly at Draco and whispered, “Fank you, nice man.”

“You’re welcome,” he said. “Take care of that little guy. I don’t think rabbits like swimming much.”

Olivia buried her face in her mother’s skirt. Her mother stroked the girl’s hair. “Ok, let’s go, missy. We’ve had enough excitement for one day. Thank you again. That was really quite noble of you.” 

As the woman walked away, Hermione took a good look at Draco. The bottom of his white T-shirt was laced with pond scum. His jeans were, of course, soaking wet, and clung to his legs like a second skin. Hermione didn’t know what surprised her more: the fact that _Draco Malfoy_ just waded into a scummy pond to retrieve a stuffed rabbit or the fact that right now, she found the pond scum-covered _Draco Malfoy_ incredibly sexy.

“That was almost heroic,” she said, forcing herself to look out at the water instead of at him.

“Almost heroic?” he said, attempting to wring out the cuffs of his jeans. “I fished out a toy, not the child itself.”

“Drake, anyone would have gone in after a child. Not many people would have gone after a toy.”

He shrugged. “Do you still have my clothes in your bag?”

“Yes, of course! Why didn’t I think of that?” She retrieved them for him.

“Because you’re not the one standing here covered in duck shit.” He pulled his shirt over his head.

Hermione made a valiant effort not to stare. The sight of his bare chest and torso—the way his pale skin stretched across a series of firm, toned muscles—made her effort rather fruitless. Once she had regained the power of speech, she said: “You’re not, um, just going to change your pants out here in the park, are you?”

“I’ll just step behind that big tree over there. Don’t want to get arrested for public indecency.” He winked at her and retreated behind a tree.

What had that wink been for? Did he notice her checking him out? Of course he noticed, Hermione chastised herself. She hadn’t exactly been subtle about it. 

He returned quickly, wringing water from his jeans. “Shall we head out? I’m not particularly relishing the feel of these wet boxers, but I figured if you knew I was going commando, you’d blush so fiercely that you’d break blood vessels.”

“I do not blush that much,” she protested. But the discussion of his underwear was, in fact, making her blush like mad. 

He uttered a sharp, sarcastic laugh as he stuffed his feet back into his shoes. “Whatever you say, Granger.” He stuffed his wet clothes into the plastic bag that Hermione handed him.

As they began to walk back to his flat, a sudden thought occurred to her. “Do you always carry a heel of bread around in your pockets?”

“Only when I know I’ll need to leave a highly inefficient trail behind me in the forest. Or,” he said, “when I visit a duck pond.”

“But you didn’t start feeding them when we sat at the bench.”

“I know. But you were with me.”

“So … you didn’t want me to intrude on your very personal Drake ‘n Ducks Intimate Moment?” 

“Yes.”

“What?”

“Just kidding. You see, I usually feed them right away. When I first started visiting the pond, I used to wait until I was just about to leave, because 75% of the time, a small child would wander up to the pond and wish he or she had something to feed the ducks. But I soon discovered that parents don’t really like it when children take bread from strange men hanging out by themselves near duck ponds. But since you were here,” he said, shifting the bag from one hand to the other, “I figured that the mother would think I was half of a charming young couple instead of a pervy bloke preying upon her tot.”

“Oh,” was all Hermione could think of to say. She suddenly felt a pang of sadness, imagining Draco sitting by himself in this park every day, frightening the protective parents of young children.

They walked the rest of the way back in comfortable silence. He paused occasionally to fidget with his wet boxers; she alternated between snickering at this and politely pretending not to notice. 

When they arrived at his door, he turned to her. “What time is it?”

“About two,” she said. 

“You still have leaves in your hair.”

She frowned at him and patted her bun. “You’re still laced with pond scum.”

He laughed. “Fair enough. You hungry?”

She was indeed quite famished. She hadn’t eaten since breakfast. But saying “yes” would suggest that she wanted to eat something with him. Which she certainly did not want to do.

“I suppose,” she said. Damn her tongue! How did that come out?

“There’s a place up the road with really excellent curry. Would you like to get a bite?”

“Drake … it’s just … it’s not …”

“I know, I know … it’s not _professional_. But this is Saturday, not Thursday. And it’s a midafternoon snack, not dinner. And I won’t even offer to pay for your food if that makes you happy.”

“I … I don’t know.”

“Look, I have to go up to my flat, grab a shower, and put on clean clothes. Why don’t you come up with me? While I’m cleaning up, you can consider it. I figure that will give you plenty of time to think of a decent excuse. If you do, then I’ll promise not to give you a hard time about it, okay?”

She sighed. “Okay.”

\----------------------------

She had not, of course, been able to think of an excuse.

She had, however, done a wonderful job at not staring at him as he walked from his bathroom to his bedroom wrapped in a towel. Sure, she had snuck in a casual glance, but there had certainly been nothing anyone would mistake for staring.

\----------------------------

He was right; the curry was excellent. Spicy enough to make her eyes water a little bit, but not so spicy that she couldn’t taste anything but fire. The place itself looked like a bit of a hole in the wall, but it was relatively crowded for the middle of the afternoon. 

“Do you come here often?” she asked.

“That’s the least original pickup line I’ve ever heard,” he said, taking a sip of water. 

She rolled her eyes and ate another forkful of rice.

“But yes, I do frequent this place when I don’t feel like making dinner.”

“What kind of food do you like to cook?”

“All kinds. Say, do you mind if we talk shop for a moment?”

“Meaning?”

“I have a question for my social worker.”

“Oh.” She patted her lips with a napkin and sat up a little straighter. “Alright.”

“Do you remember when you asked me if I noticed confusing or troubling inconsistencies?”

Her heartbeat quickened. “Yes.”

“Why did you ask me that?”

“Because of your head injuries,” she said quickly. 

“What exactly happened to my head? What did they do to it?”

“I don’t know for sure.” She chose her words cautiously. “I wasn’t given access to the police records.”

“Why don’t I have any scars?”

“I guess you had good doctors.”

“Hmm.” He didn’t seem satisfied with that answer. “It’s just strange that all of my personal memories are gone, but I remember other things, like the lyrics to the entire Beatles catalogue. Why do I know every single bloody word to ‘Eleanor Rigby,’ but have no idea what my mother’s face looks like?” He slammed his water glass down on the table.

“I don’t know, Drake. Those aren’t the kinds of things I can help you with.”

“What _can_ you help me with, Ms. Granger?”

“Maybe nothing,” she said quietly. 

“That is bloody fantastic.”

They sat in uncomfortable silence for a few minutes. Hermione pushed the rest of her food around on her plate. 

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I didn’t mean to ruin our afternoon.”

Had Draco Malfoy just _apologized_ to her? 

“I … uhm … don’t worry about it,” she said. “I can’t even imagine how difficult things must be for you.”

“It just doesn’t make sense, Granger. I’ve done a lot of reading about memory disorders and head trauma, and this just doesn’t seem normal.”

“There is no such thing as normal when it comes to these things, Drake. Everyone’s brain is different.”

He sighed.

“Is there a reason why you brought this up?” she asked gently. “Have you noticed something … confusing … lately?”

He said nothing. His jaw was clenched tightly, his fingers drummed an erratic rhythm on the table.

“What is it?” 

He closed his eyes.

“Just tell me.”

“You have to promise me something,” he said, opening his eyes and locking them with hers.

“Yes?”

“You cannot laugh.”

“I promise.”

“If you do, so help me …”

“I won’t laugh,” she said. Her voice was deathly serious.

“Fine.” He took a deep breath and looked down at the table. “Yesterday, I stood outside my flat’s door for almost twenty minutes trying to open the door.”

“Your … your keys didn’t work?”

“No. I didn’t think of using them.”

“I don’t understand,” she said. But she did. She was just wishing that she didn’t.

“For whatever reason, I was convinced—utterly convinced—that the way open the door was with a password. I started saying the most ridiculous things, and kept getting more and more frustrated when they didn’t work. Then, all of a sudden, I remembered that one uses keys to open doors. So I got my keys from my pocket, opened the door, went inside, and tried to forget that the whole thing ever happened.”

“But you didn’t.”

“No.” He made eye contact with her again. His pale eyes looked lost. “Thank you for not laughing.”

“Drake …”

“I thought it would be strange to tell you. I swore I wouldn’t. But actually, it’s quite a relief.”

“I will always listen to you.” She covered his hand with hers. His skin was cold and his knuckles were bony. “I will always take you seriously.” 

“I believe you, Hermione.” His eyes trailed down to her hand. She wanted to pull it back, but didn’t when he asked his next question: “Do you think I’m going crazy?”

“No, Drake.”

“I think I might be.” 

“You’re not going crazy.” She squeezed his hand. “You will get through this. It just takes time.”

He said nothing, but squeezed her hand in return. 

\-----------------

They walked back to his flat in silence, but Hermione’s mind was racing. She alternated between being concerned for Draco’s mental health and frantically trying to determine what had gone wrong with the _rescripso_ spell. 

When they got to his door, she turned to him, but was unsure of what to say. 

He spoke instead. “I had a nice time with you, Hermione.” 

She smiled up at him. “I had a nice time with you as well.” 

They stood for a moment, saying nothing. Hermione found her gaze fall to his lips, and then found herself wondering what they would feel like on her own. She flicked her eyes nervously up to his; he was staring at her lips too. _Oh God_ , Hermione thought. _We are going to kiss, aren’t we_?

That simply could not happen.

“I … I should go,” she said, swallowing hard. 

He drew in his breath. “If you must.”

“I’ll … see you on Thursday.”

“Right. Don’t forget your notebook.” He could have said this harshly, but his words had no venom in them.

“I won’t.” She began to walk down the street.

“Granger?”

“Yes?” she turned to face him.

“Can we do this again?”

“I don’t know if it’s a good idea, Drake.”

“Please?”

“Drake, you’re my client. This isn’t … I can’t.”

“Can I fire you?”

“Come again?”

“Can I fire you?” he repeated. “Request a different social worker? So that we can do this again?”

“They would ask why you were doing that. I can’t lose this job, Drake.” That wasn’t exactly the truth. But she still didn’t want to have to explain why they needed to assign someone else to Draco's case. And, more importantly, she didn’t want anyone else working with him. That would create too many problems. 

“I wouldn’t want to cause you any trouble,” he said. “But Granger? Seeing you, talking to you … it just might be keeping me sane.”

“Drake …”

“Let me make you dinner.”

“What?”

“On Thursday. Instead of tea, let me make you dinner.”

“No.”

“It’s just dinner.”

“It wouldn’t be right.”

He breathed a heavy sigh. It seemed to deflate his chest. “Alright. I understand.”

“Saturday,” she said, regretting the word the instant it left her lips.

“What?” his voice was two octaves higher than usual.

“Next Saturday. We can have dinner then.”

“Are you sure?”

“No. So don’t ask me that again.”

“Okay.”

“But you have to promise me something,” she said.

“You want five questions without arseholery again?”

“Not that. Does your job have some sort of happy hour? Like a get-together at a local bar?”

“Yes.” His eyes narrowed. “Why?”

“I want you to go.”

“Not bloody likely.”

“Those are my terms.”

“How about ten questions?”

“No.”

“Will you come with me to Happy Hour? It’s at Sparky’s. Just around the corner.”

‘‘No.”

“There isn’t anything else you could ask me to do?”

“No.”

He rolled his eyes. “Fine. But you’re staying for dessert on Saturday.

“Alright.”

“ _And_ ,” he added pointedly, “you only get three questions on Thursday. And no promises about not being an arsehole.”

“How about this: I will _expect_ you to be an areshole on Thursday.”

“I can handle that.” A smile stretched his lips. She had to leave before she started thinking about them too much.

“Have a good evening, Mr. Malford.”

“You too, Ms. Granger.”


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry tries to lend a hand.

**Sunday**

“She was really quite brilliant. Well, both of them were. All of them, I mean. But Ginny especially.”

“That’s good, Harry.”

“I almost felt bad for the Kestrels’ Keeper after a while. Not too bad, but still ...”

“I’m glad to hear that.”

“Of course, in the middle of the game, I did notice that their Seeker was none other than Lord Voldemort.”

“What?” Hermione sat bolt upright and stared at Harry. 

“Relax, Hermione. I’m just trying to get your attention.”

“That wasn’t funny. You shouldn’t joke about that.” She sank back down into her couch cushions. 

“What is going on with you?”

“Nothing,” she muttered, staring down at her hands. She cleared her throat, pasted a smile on her face, and said: “You’re right, Harry. I’m sorry I wasn’t listening. Really, tell me about Ginny’s match.”

“It was fantastic. You really should have come.”

“I know. I just …”

“You pretty much hate Geri’s guts, don’t you?”

Hermione tried not to laugh. “I think that’s a rather strong way of phrasing it.”

“But it’s close to the truth?”

“It skirts the truth.”

Harry clucked his tongue. “Jealous?”

“Not that exactly. I think I just don’t like her.”

“She’s alright, Hermione. I mean, she’s not you, but she’s not that bad.”

Hermione smiled at her friend. “So how are the wedding plans going?”

“Eh, you’d have to ask Ginny about that. I’m kind of taking a hands-off approach these days. My input doesn’t actually seem to matter, so I found that it’s much easier if I don’t bother forming opinions in the first place.”

“That sounds like a very good idea,” she laughed.

“I thought so myself.” Harry put his mug down on the coffee table. His voice took on a more serious tone. “Look, Hermione, I enjoy catching up with you like this, but you invited me to your flat to have tea on a Sunday afternoon. Not me and Ron and Ginny: me. I know you want to talk to me about something.” 

She sighed. “Yes.” 

“And not about Ron and Geri.”

“No.” She got up and began to pace around the living room a bit. Sitting still was not an option. 

“Draco?”

“Yes.”

“What’s been going on? And could you stop pacing? You’re driving me batty.”

“Sorry.” She tried to sit down. It didn’t last. “I can’t. Pace with me.”

Harry sighed, but complied with her wishes.

“Do you promise not to tell anyone about this? Not Ron, not Kingsley, not Ginny, not anyone?”

“I promise.”

“Okay.” She bit her lip and stopped pacing for a moment. “He’s slipping, Harry.” She resumed pacing.

“What do you mean?”

Hermione took a deep breath and explained everything—leaving out, of course, anything that smacked of romantic affection—from Draco’s desire to be called “Drake-O” to his attempt to open his door with a password. When she had finally finished, her throat was dry and they had almost paced a tread into her carpet. 

“So what should I do, Harry?” She finally stopped moving, leaning up against her kitchen counter. Tears stood in her eyes.

“Wow.” Harry hopped up on the counter, taking a seat next to her. “That’s … how can that have happened?”

“I don’t know.”

“We were so thorough with the spell.”

“I know.”

“And you’ve checked everyone else’s files? Narcissa, Blaise, Pansy?”

“This isn’t happening to anyone else.”

“Damn.”

“It can’t be the spell. It has to be him. He must have been … resisting it somehow?”

“How? It’s not like he knew a counter-charm. Plus, he didn’t have his wand.”

“Maybe Occlumency?” she suggested.

“That wouldn’t have an effect on this.”

“Do you want something stronger than tea?” She began to reach into the back of one of her kitchen cabinets.

“It’s Sunday afternoon.”

“Is that a yes?” 

“Yes.”

She poured them both small glasses of firewhiskey. They sipped and thought.

“I guess that figuring out how it happened isn’t as important as figuring out what to do about it,” he said. 

“Well, after reading Dean’s reports, I got the sense that the others had a much easier time of things once they started integrating into their communities. So I made him promise to go to one of his job’s social functions.”

“Hmm. That’s a good idea. But what if he has some sort of … episode while he’s out with them?”

“I don’t think that’s particularly likely. I mean, he goes to work every day. He goes to the park, the grocery store, restaurants. He hasn’t really had any issues that would endanger himself or others.”

“That’s a solid point.”

“I just wish I could watch him somehow … see how he acted around other people.”

“Do you want to borrow the Invisibility Cloak?”

“That’s not a bad idea.” She thought this over. “But,” she said, having considered all the possibilities, “too much could go wrong. Bars can be such crowded places. What if a Muggle bumped into me? Or what if someone accidentally saw part of my shoe? Or what if I had the hiccups? I’d hate to have to obliviate the lot of them. And God knows what that would do to Draco.”

“Hmm.” He tapped the side of his glass with a fingernail. 

Hermione downed the rest of the liquid in her glass.

“I’ll go,” Harry said suddenly.

“What?”

“I’ll go,” he repeated. “To the bar.”

“Harry …” she began.

“No, this will work,” he said. “He won’t know who I am. No one will. It’s as good as being invisible.”

“I don’t know …”

“Besides,” he added, “I know enough about Muggle life not to be mystified by things like pinball machines.”

Hermione giggled. “Do you remember when Arthur Weasley saw his first one of those? He spent thirty-six hours straight trying to figure out how to make it work.”

“When you showed him that all you had to do was put a Muggle coin into the slot, he almost cried.”

“Then once he knew the secret, he spent the next thirty-six hours straight trying to beat his high score.”

They were both laughing now. “Oh, Molly _hated_ that machine.”

Harry drained the last of his firewhiskey. “So you can rest assured that I won’t do that,” he said, wiping his mouth with his hand.

“Well ...” she said, furrowing her brow in concentration. “I guess it’s as good a plan as any.”

“I personally think it’s a smashing idea.”

She gave him a half-smile. “You would.”

“So Friday, then?”

“Yes. At a place called Sparky’s.”

“This should be interesting.”

“Harry, listen … there’s something else.”

He slid down from the counter. “What?”

Why had she begun this line of conversation? She certainly was not about to tell him that they had almost kissed—that she had sincerely wanted to kiss him—but at the same time, she needed him to know something. “He’s not the same Draco that we knew in school.”

“How do you mean?”

“He’s … well … he’s … I don’t know if there’s a word for it.”

“Since when have you ever limited yourself to one word?” he said with a smirk.

“Ha ha,” she said. Then she told him a slightly abbreviated version of the events at the park yesterday.

“Are you telling me that Draco Malfoy willingly waded into a filthy duck pond to get a stuffed rabbit for a two-year-old girl?”

“That is exactly what I’m telling you.”

“ _Merlin_ ,” he half-whispered.

“My thoughts exactly.”

“Wait,” he said. “Why were you at the park with him?”

“He’ll talk more when we get out of his flat.” This wasn’t a total lie.

“I see. Well … look, I’ll definitely keep my eyes peeled on Friday. And we’ll regroup next Saturday morning. Compare notes.”

“Thanks, Harry.”

“For what?”

“For listening. For helping.”

“Well thank _you_ for the Sunday-afternoon tea and whiskey.”

“Let’s just hope that tea and whiskey will cut it next Saturday.”

 

\----------------------------  
**Friday**

Granger seriously owed him for this.

When he had casually asked the fellow in the cubicle next to him what time everyone usually went to the bar, the fellow, whom he had since come to refer to as Tad the Insufferable Wanker, had said “Five-thirty. Why? You coming?”

He had replied, “Yes, I’m thinking of it.”

Tad the Insufferable Wanker then proclaimed, “Well polish my eggs, Malford. What’s the occasion?” 

He stood and said, “I’m taking my lunch now.” Then he took a rather brisk walk through the park and decided to blow off the entire thing. She’d never find out if he didn’t go.

But he had made a deal. And he couldn’t lie to her. So he went.

And here he was. As promised.

He had not, however, promised her that he would stay very long. So he would have one drink and then he would go home. 

“So I hear that the Hanson account has been a total bear,” said Clem, the less insufferable woman who worked in sales. 

“I suppose,” he said, sipping his drink.

“Right. Well. Sure looks like rain out there, huh?”

“Hard to tell right now. We’re indoors.”

“It was pretty cloudy this afternoon.”

“Yes.”

She glanced around, obviously trying to find a way out of the conversation. He didn’t blame her. He sighed and decided to make a Noble Attempt. “So how is … err … your family?” He was taking a bit of a stab with that one. He knew she had photographs of a man and children on her desk, but he had no idea whether they were hers or whether they just came with the frame. 

She looked slightly stunned. “Oh, they’re just lovely. Thank you for asking. Tara has just had her clarinet recital and …”

He did his best to look interested as she blathered on and on and on about her offspring. Every once in a while he mustered a “Isn’t that nice?” or “My, my!” to give the impression that he was still listening. 

When she ceased prattling, she asked, “And how is yours?”

He briefly considered replying with something like, “Well, I don’t really know. They could be fine. They could have all died 10 years ago in a tragic zoo accident. Do you think they miss me? Does it keep them all up at night? Or do you think they’re all secretly happy that they never have to see me again?” Instead, he said, “They’re fine, thanks.”

She smiled at him and nodded, then saw that the receptionist was showing off her new engagement ring. “Ooh, I’m going to go and see Fiona’s new bauble. Would you like to come?”

He declined as politely as he possibly could. She looked relieved. He certainly felt relieved as she walked away. He finished his drink and looked around the bar. People were talking and laughing in groups of two, three, four. Everyone else seemed relaxed, shaking off the work week with the help of alcohol and easy conversation. He was the only one who stood alone. Well, he and that black-haired bloke in glasses at the end of the bar who kept throwing him glances. He wondered if Black-Hair was checking him out. That was _all_ he needed. 

Oh great, Black-Hair caught him looking back. Thankfully, he seemed properly embarrassed at this and did not take it as a sign to initiate conversation. 

But something about Black-Hair made him look again. 

“Oi, Tad,” he said to the Insufferable Wanker. 

“What’s the haps, Malford?” 

Dear _Lord_ , did he actually just say that? How did that man live with himself?

“You see that bloke at the end of the bar?”

“The one with glasses?”

“Yes. Does he work with us?”

“No. Why?”

“He looks familiar.” 

“Never seen him before. You want me to … err … be like your wingman?” Tad flashed him a huge, slimy grin.

“No,” Drake said. He sincerely regretted engaging the Insufferable Wanker in conversation. 

“So you, uh, you swing that way though, right?”

“Is there some sort of office pool?” he asked dryly. 

“What? No, I’m just …”

“Curious about my personal life?”

“That’s right. I mean, you really keep to yourself, you know?”

“I’m aware of that.” He finished his pint. “See you Monday.”

\----------------

The air outside the bar was wonderfully crisp and cool against his skin. If he had stayed in that place one moment longer, he would have lost his bloody mind.

Why the _hell_ had she wanted him to do that? She couldn’t possibly think that he would benefit from interacting with those morons? 

Alright, he conceded, they weren’t all morons. Tad was, for certain. But Clem was a nice lady. And so was Fiona. And his boss Rick, usually. He actually also rather liked the housekeeping staff, because they smiled at him but said very little. It wasn’t them. It was him. He didn’t know how to talk to them. He couldn’t relate to them. He had an utterly unshakable feeling that he didn’t belong with them.

But where _did_ he belong? He had no idea whatsoever. And that was killing him.

The wind blew fiercely. Clem had been right; a storm was most assuredly brewing. Branches of all sizes littered the streets. Without thinking about what he was doing, he bent and picked one of them up, turning it over and over again in his hands. It was a slim branch—little more than a twig, really—but almost perfectly straight. He liked the way it felt when he held it. He balled his fist tightly around it as he walked back to his flat.


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hermione does some research; Draco makes a pizza.

**Saturday**

“Well, that doesn’t sound too bad,” Hermione said. She laid her pen atop the notebook. Harry’s report on Happy Hour at Sparky’s was relatively painless. Draco had kept to himself for most of the evening, but had spent some time talking to an older woman from his office. He had given Harry suspicious glances, but that might just been because he noticed Harry watching him, not because he recognized him from his past life.

“No,” Harry agreed. “ _That_ part wasn’t bad.”

“I don’t like the sound of that.” Hermione picked her pen back up. 

“Why don’t you use a quill and parchment for that?” he asked.

“Because I like to keep all my notes in one place,” she explained. “And I can’t very well bring a quill and parchment to Draco’s flat. Anyway, the pen and notebook are charmed. Whatever I write down here is simultaneously copied to a file in that chest,” she nodded towards a wooden box in the corner of the room. “So what happened next?”

“Well, after about half an hour, he left the bar and I followed him back to his flat. On the way, he picked up a branch that was lying on the street.”

“And what did he do with it?”

“He just held it as he walked, then he brought it inside with him. I didn’t follow him in.”

Hermione swore under her breath as she scribbled notes.

“It could have been perfectly innocent,” Harry offered.

“If this had been an isolated incident, I might be likely to agree with you. But coupled with everything else …”

“Yeah, it worries me too,” he admitted. “But look at it this way—there’s nothing he can do with it. First, it’s not a wand. Second, the _rescripso_ should have significantly dampened his magical abilities. Even if Draco had his old hawthorn wand, he’d have a hard time even casting _lumos_.”

“Yes, well, the _rescripso_ should also have kept Draco from trying to open his front door with a password.” Hermione muttered. 

“That’s a fair point.”

“I was hoping I wouldn’t have to get the firewhiskey out so early in the morning,” Hermione sighed.

Harry laughed. “Let’s make do without it. For now, at least.”

“Your call.” She managed a small smile and closed her notebook. “This is a mess.”

“I know.”

They sat in silence for a moment. Hermione began to pace.

“Not that again,” Harry said. But he got up to pace with her. “Maybe we should tell the rest of the Council.”

“No.” The firmness of Hermione’s voice startled her a bit. She stopped pacing and turned to him. “Look, Harry, I know this sounds terrible, but … I don’t really trust them with this. What if they want to do something even worse to him? Or try to rewrite his memories again? That might only make things worse. And it’s not his fault—not this part, at least. We should have tested this spell much more thoroughly before actually using it on someone.”

“We _did_ test it, Hermione. We tested it for months. And there haven’t been any problems with anyone else. Maybe someone on the Council will understand why Draco is different.”

“And then what?”

“I don’t know … that’s why we’re asking them.”

“Harry, I don’t want to go to them. Not yet. They won’t understand.”

“Understand what?” 

“They don’t know how much of Drake is in Draco.” Tears threatened to flood Hermione’s eyes. She kept them at bay by digging her thumbnail into the flesh of her index finger. 

“Hermione,” Harry said gently, “Maybe you don’t know how much of Draco is in Drake.”

She took a deep breath and massaged the center of her forehead. “You’re right, Harry. You are. But I just … I’m not ready to give up on this yet.”

“You have to promise me something.”

She looked up at her friend warily. His eyes were kind, but sharp. “What?”

“If this doesn’t get better by the end of the month, we go to the Council.”

She thought this over. “Alright.” 

“But if he starts actually doing magic, or something equally drastic, we go immediately.”

“Agreed.”

“Hermione?”

“Yes?” 

“Don’t let your heart get in the way of your head.”

Her eyes narrowed. “What is _that_ supposed to mean?” 

“I just mean don’t be so filled with pity for him that you make irrational decisions.” He cocked his head. “What did you _think_ I meant?”

“I … I’m sorry, Harry. I think I’m still just stinging after Ron’s knock on my work with S.P.E.W.”

Harry eased into a grin. “Yeah, he can be a bit of a git, can’t he?”

“Just a bit.” Her smile matched his.

“So are you coming to the game tonight?” 

“The … game? Oh. Is there another Harpies match?” 

He nodded. “Against the Chudley Cannons. Shouldn’t be much of a challenge. Except for Ron, of course, who will have to pick a side.”

“Right, right,” she said. She was sure they had told her about this. How could she have forgotten? 

“Hermione,” he said, “I know you don’t much like Quidditch, but I thought you might at least want to come to see Ginny.”

“I’m sorry, Harry. I really would like to come. But I’ve already made other plans.”

“What sort of plans?” He looked suspicious.

She sighed. There was no use lying to him. “I’m going to see Draco.”

“Tonight?”

“Yes.”

“Hermione …” his voice was heavy with warning.

“Harry, it’s nothing. I just … I promised him. Because he promised me that he’d go to that thing with his officemates.”

Harry opened his mouth to say something, but closed it again. He gave her a searching look. She tried to keep her expression blank, willing him not to ask her any more questions. 

“Alright,” he said. “Just … be careful, Hermione.”

“I will.”

“And look, it would really mean a lot to Ginny if you came to the next game. It’s the Montrose Magpies. A victory for the Harpies would cement their place in the semi-finals.”

“I’ll definitely be there, Harry. Next Saturday?”

“Thursday. At 8. We’ll meet at the Burrow at 7?”

Thursday? Well, she’d obviously have to reschedule with Draco. She couldn’t ditch her friends for him again. “Absolutely. I’ll see you there.” 

“Brilliant.” He picked up his jacket and headed towards the door. “Well, I’m off to meet Ron for lunch. See you at work on Monday.”

“Right. Thanks for coming over, Harry. And for keeping this between us.”

“Of course,” he said, resting his hand on the doorknob. “Look … I trust your judgment more than I trust anyone else’s, but still … just be careful.”

“I will.” She hugged her friend tightly. 

Easier said than done, of course. But she’d try. 

 

\-------------

When Harry left, Hermione spent a few hours researching memory charms. Of course, when the Council had first decided to use the spell, she’d read every book she could find in the Ministry library that even mentioned the word “memory.” But her work now was more focused, more deliberate: she was searching for instances where spells had failed.

Some books were more useful than others. Dimitra Dimitrescu’s 700-page _Charms to Remind Us_ , for example, had been a colossal waste of her Wednesday evening, as it consisted entirely of spells that would help you remember to do things like visit your grandmother on her birthday or return a book to the library on time. Hermione had thought that Dimitrescu’s advice on what to do if the spells failed might be useful, but her answer to everything seemed to be the same: apologize to the injured party and concentrate harder when casting the spell the next time around. 

“Fat lot of good that would do in this situation,” Hermione had muttered.

Rudino Van Blandermeer’s _Bloopers, Blunders, and Badly Botched Spells_ , on the other hand, had a particularly useful chapter on memory charms gone wrong. Van Blandermeer recounted the cautionary tale of Malangtha Crashaw, a witch who, in 1626, attempted to use a mnemolyse potion to erase part of her husband’s memories after he caught her in the act of adultery. Unfortunately for Mr. Crashaw, however, Malangtha had been unable to find powdered thistlemilk. Because the recipe only called for “one-sixteenth of a faeriecup” of the stuff, Malangtha thought that it wouldn’t make much of a difference. She could not have been more wrong. The potion had the complete opposite effect from what Malangtha had intended: every single memory that Mr. Crashaw had was now tainted with the image of Malanghta in her lover’s arms, whether she had originally been part of that memory or not. When he tried to recall his first day of school, for example, he found that when he recalled walking into the drafty old schoolhouse, he was greeted not by stern old Master Elyot, but by the sight of his wife being tupped by Thom Fletcher. 

Van Blandermeer’s book was filled with similar stories—all interesting, but none of them quite what Hermione was looking for. All of the _Bloopers, Blunders, and Badly Botched Spells_ had one thing in common: there had been some sort of mistake or miscalculation—a simple error in judgment when adding ingredients or reciting the incantation. Hermione was positive that this was not the case with Draco. They had been extraordinarily careful in researching, developing, and casting the spell. 

So what had gone wrong? And more importantly, could they fix it?

_Bloopers, Blunders, and Badly Botched Spells_ did not provide much advice about remedying mishaps, but one section of Scintilla Lawson’s _Cleaning Up After Yourself: How to Right Magical Wrongs_ did contain some relevant anecdotes. Lawson sketched out the story of Jarvis Minchpin, an eighteenth-century American wizard who had obliviated his cousin Perkin, from whom he had borrowed a large sum of money. For some reason, Perkin had forgotten not just about the borrowed money, but also how to dress himself. After walking through the town square wearing nothing but a powdered wig and a mismatched pair of gloves, Perkin was thrown into the stocks for “publick lewdnesse.” Minchpin’s conscience got the best of him: he bribed the local magistrate to get Perkin out of the stocks (using Perkin’s money, of course), and then reversed the spell. When Perkin realized what had happened, he was so furious that he turned Minchpin into a goat. Perkin was never able to reclaim his good standing in the community, and was thus forced to move to France. There was no further word of Minchpin the goat. 

The story that most caught Hermione’s attention was that of Florizell Askew, a witch who was hopelessly in love with Vasily Ypsilantis, a wizard with a disturbing interest in dark magic. According to Askew’s diary, she had spent several years trying to persuade Ypsilantis to abandon the dark arts. Although he did on several occasions attempt to give them up for her, he always relapsed. Eventually, Askew got so frustrated that she composed a spell that was intended to erase all of Ypsilantis’ memories of engaging in the dark arts, thus giving him a “fresh start,” in Askew’s words. Askew cast the spell, but the effects were disastrous: although the targeted memories were indeed erased, Askew had not thought to put new memories in their place. As a result, Ypsilantis had large empty spaces in his memory: he had no idea, for example, what had happened to him for most of 1933. The fractured nature of his mind caused him to go mad, which then led him to begin dabbling in the dark arts once again. In an attempt to undo her mistake, Askew devised _another_ spell that would erase all of the memories Ypsilantis formed after the first casting. This second spell caused even more harm: Ypsiliantis’ memories were erased, but his madness remained and intensified. He began to delve even deeper into the dark arts, eventually meeting his death while attempting to obtain an eye from a living unicorn. Askew blamed herself, falling into a deep depression that eventually led her to renounce magic forever in favor of becoming a shepherdess in New Zealand. 

The story confirmed Hermione’s fears: Askew’s spells, however well-intentioned, had eventually cost Vasily Ypsilantis his sanity. Further attempts to undo the damage only resulted in greater harm. Hermione jotted down a few notes for herself; maybe she could find more information in other books that referenced Askew or Ypsilantis.

**Saturday, later**

When she finally pulled herself away from the books, she swore softly under her breath. It was already almost five-thirty! She’d have to hurry if she wanted to get to Draco’s on time for dinner. She showered and dressed quickly, trying not to put too much thought into her outfit: a soft pink cotton shirt, jeans, and a brown corduroy jacket. She pulled her hair back into a rather poufy ponytail and pulled on a pair of scuffed trainers. When she had finished dressing, she grabbed her bag, reached for the wand stuffed carefully inside, and apparated into her usual spot, a utility closet in the library two blocks from Draco’s. She’d scoped that location out before he’d even moved into his building. There were no security cameras in the library and the janitorial staff only used the closet in the wee hours of the morning. As long as she didn’t apparate in between 2 and 7 AM, she could walk out of the closet and exit from the rear of the building with no one ever noticing her. Then she only had to walk the two blocks to Draco’s house. That had not, of course, been particularly fun on the day it had rained, but it wasn’t much of an issue the other days. 

Luckily, it wasn’t raining tonight. It looked like it might later, but that wasn’t too much of an issue: she could easily use a drying spell once she got back to her utility closet that night. She rang the bell to his flat; he buzzed her in without even asking who it was. 

It was very difficult for her not to laugh at him when he opened the door. He was, after all, wearing a light blue oxford shirt, khaki pants, and an apron decorated with roosters.

“What’s the matter, Granger? Have you never seen a man in an apron before?” he asked, taking her jacket. 

“I just never imagined that you’d be wearing one. And especially not one with roosters on it.”

“Roosters are very masculine animals,” he said, walking back towards the kitchen. “Why do you think we call the cock a cock?”

“Which are you implying came first?” she asked, instantly regretting pursuing this line of conversation.

“It doesn’t matter which came first. The fact remains that a cock is a cock. Have you ever watched an adult film where the gentleman says to the lady, ‘Oh baby, suck on my gander,’ or the lady said to the gentleman, ‘My, that’s an impressive cygnet’?” His back was towards her, but she could tell that he had a wicked grin on his face. He was probably waiting for her to try to change the subject, or to squirm around uncomfortably. She was just about to give him the satisfaction when he did her the favor. “Would you like some wine?”

“No thank you.” Alcohol was certainly not a good idea. She needed every single one of her inhibitions tonight. 

“Thought you might say that. Ginger ale, then?”

“That sounds lovely.” He poured each of them a glass. “It smells really wonderful in here,” she said. “What are you making?”

“Pizza.”

“Pizza requires an apron?” she asked, leaning against his kitchen counter.

“Pizza _dough_ requires an apron. All that flour. And the sauce was a bit messier than I had anticipated. But I suppose you’re right: the danger to my khakis is no longer imminent.” He nodded gravely and hung up his apron. 

Hermione’s mouth hung open. “You made your own dough? _And_ sauce?”

He seemed amused by her surprise. “I was going to make my own cheese too, but I couldn’t find a way to get a cow in here without arousing the suspicion of my landlady. No pets allowed.”

“Wow.”

“I was kidding about the cow, you know.” He put ice into both of their drinks.

“I think I’m still a bit shocked about the pizza dough.”

“It’s really not that difficult, Granger. Any idiot can follow a recipe. Do you like pizza?”

“Who doesn’t?”

“That was my thought. Plus, I saw at the curry house that you got daal. I thought you might be a vegetarian.” 

Hermione’s hand fluttered up to her chest. It was an almost involuntary movement. She had become a vegetarian three years ago and Ron _still_ couldn’t remember not to put bacon on her sandwiches. “I am. Thanks for noticing.”

“I notice lots of things about you, Granger.” He gave her a funny little smile. Her face burned under his gaze.

“So, uhm,” she said, suddenly incredibly interested in the bubbles in her soda, “How was Happy Hour last night?”

His face immediately darkened. “Fine.”

“That’s it? Fine.”

“Yes. It. Was. Fine.”

“Well did you …”

“Granger, I went. For you. It wasn’t terrible, but it wasn’t anything I’d really like to do again. Okay?”

“Okay.” She put her hands on her hips. “You know, I’m only trying to help, Drake.”

“How the hell is getting me to listen to Clementine Seymour drone on endlessly about her brat’s bloody clarinet recital supposed to help?” His voice had quite an edge to it.

“Well, I’ve read lots of … case studies that suggest that people in similar situations to yours have a …”

“Just how many fucking case studies are there about people in the Witness Protection Program who suffer from highly selective amnesia?”

“Alright, so their situations are not completely similar,” she said carefully. “But from what I’ve read, people who have suffered from memory trauma generally benefit from integrating into their society as much as possible.”

“Well isn’t that lovely?” he asked, rolling his eyes. “Pity the police didn’t include some sort of manual about how to do that along with my Official Biography and forged birth certificate.”

“Drake, it might take time, but …”

“Hermione, you don’t understand.” The sarcasm drained from his voice, giving it a deathly serious tone. “I don’t belong with these people.”

Her mouth was dry. She forced herself to breathe evenly. “What do you mean by that?”

“I … I’m not really sure. I just have this feeling. In my gut.”

“That’s understandable. You were uprooted from … well, from wherever it is that you were from.”

“I know. I’ve thought of that. No one thinks I speak with a strange accent, so I can’t be that far from home.”

“Drake …”

“So here is what I started wondering.” He sat across from her at his kitchen table. His eyes bored holes into hers. “If there was some big-time criminal who might be after me, why would they relocate me to London? England isn’t a very big country, in the grand scheme of things. So I figure that I must have been somewhere else when it happened. Maybe I went to University in the States and stayed there for a few years. So I witnessed the crime in the States and they decided it was safer for me to come back here. But I must have grown up here. I _must_ have. And I feel that, Hermione. I do. Things like the weather or the landscape feel very, very familiar to me. But there’s something that is just not quite right. Like I belong here, but not the _here_ part of here. Does that make any sense?”

“Sort of.”

“You know,” he continued, “this wanker I work with always says things like ‘Oi, your folks must be bloody rich, mate,’ because he assumes I went to some private school.”

“Why does he assume that?”

“Have you ever seen my handwriting? It’s like a bloody computer font. One of those excessively ornate ones. So I must be from around here somewhere, and I must have gone to a private school. I’ve visited the website of every single private school in England, hoping the pictures will jog my memory, but nothing.”

“Drake …” she began again.

“Forget it,” he said. He turned to stare out of his kitchen window. “I know what you’re going to say. Let’s just change the subject.”

“Okay,” she said, running her finger down the side of her glass, tracing a long line into the condensation. “Uhm, seen any good football matches lately?” It was a feeble attempt, but her brain was still processing everything he had just told her.

“Wait. I’m not done. I thought I was, but I wasn’t. Look, what if my family _is_ rich? Don’t you think that they’d be even bigger targets for the criminals?”

“I’m sure the police are taking care of everything, Drake.”

He snorted.

“Anyway,” she said, joining him at the window, “what I was actually going to say was this: your handwriting doesn’t prove anything about you. You could have just been interested in calligraphy as a child. Or maybe you got a scholarship to a private school. Or you …”

“There are a billion ‘or’s,’” he said. “None of them help.”

“Then you’ve got to stop thinking about them.”

“I can’t.” His voice was eerily quiet.

She took his hands in hers. “Drake, listen to me: your past does not define you.”

“Then what does?” He wouldn’t look at her.

“Your inner self.”

He made a sound of mild disgust, but he kept his hands in hers. “What does that even mean, Granger?”

“You know … who you really are on the inside.”

“But how much of a person’s ‘inner self’ is written by his memories?” 

“You mean nature versus nurture?”

“Whatever you want to call it.”

“I don’t know for sure. But look at it this way … maybe whoever you are _now_ is the real you. Because you haven’t been influenced by _any_ sort of nurture.”

“Granger,” he said, looking her square in the eye. “Who I am now is a complete mental case.”

“No you are not,” she said. “That’s just … the head trauma talking. That will get better.” _Somehow_ , she added silently. _I don’t know when, but I_ will _find a way to help you._

“No it won’t. It’s getting worse.”

“How?”

“I don’t feel like talking about it right now.” He took his hands from hers and returned his gaze to the window.

“Drake …”

“Later, alright? I’ll tell you about it later.” 

“Ok.” Her stomach sank. It had to be bad if he didn’t want to talk about it. 

“At any rate,” he added, “how do you know that the real me isn’t complete arsehole?”

“I don’t,” she said with a smirk. 

“Fair enough.” He let his eyes smile at her. 

“This is easily the worst view outside of a kitchen window I’ve ever seen,” she said. It most assuredly was. It looked out over a dumpster.

“Could be worse. Could be a dumpster _and_ a pile of burning tires.”

“I think the flames might make things rather cozy.” 

“Plus, the smell of burning rubber would surely cancel out that marvelous dumpster fragrance that so often wafts its way up here.” 

The kitchen timer began to beep. He put on oven mitts—also covered in roosters—and took the pizza out of the oven. It looked even better than it smelled. Soft white mounds of cheese bubbled atop the saucy crust. 

“Is that fresh mozzarella?” Hermione asked.

“What, you think I’d stoop to purchasing the packaged shreds? You must have me confused with some sort of plebeian. Get the salad out of the fridge, would you?” 

While Draco cut the pizza, Hermione found two bowls of garden salad in the refrigerator and a bottle of vinaigrette. She put them on the table and folded both of their napkins into roses. Draco set the pizza on the table and took his seat across from her.

“This looks amazing,” she said. 

“And this,” he said, picking up her napkin, “looks like you have mistaken my kitchen for a fine dining establishment. Which is certainly understandable, given the exquisite nature of the victuals.”

She planned on making a witty retort, but her mouth was currently in heaven. “Mmm,” was all she could muster.

He looked rather pleased with himself. “So where did you learn to make napkin roses?”

“My parents took me to a fancy restaurant for my ninth birthday. God knows why, because nine-year-olds are not exactly interested in haute cuisine, but I suppose they meant well. At any rate, I remember being utterly fascinated by the napkin roses on the table. I wouldn’t let my father use his napkin until I’d figured out how to make one myself.”

“Mmm, and how long did that take?”

“Oh, not long,” she said. “Which was good, because my father is a notoriously messy eater.”

“Is he?”

“Utterly. You would think that a dentist would show some sort of special care in the way that food enters his mouth, but I’m not entirely sure he even aimed most of the time. It’s probably what keeps him so trim; half of the food ends up on his clothing en route to his stomach.”

“What about your tenth birthday? What did you do for that?”

“My tenth birthday … hmm.” Hermione chewed thoughtfully. “Oh yes, we went to the planetarium.”

“You had a birthday party at the planetarium?”

“No, it wasn’t a party. It was just my parents and I. We saw a smashing show. Constellations of the Northern Hemisphere. I drove my mother batty for weeks afterwards asking to stay up late so that I could look at the stars. My parents said that there was too much light pollution to see the stars from our house, but I was convinced that if I just stayed up late enough, the sky would get so dark that I could see them. Finally they bought me a book that explained the concept of light pollution in a bit more detail and that was that.”

“You didn’t just believe it when your parents told you about it?” 

“Well, I mean, it’s not like I thought they were lying. I just tend to trust books more than people.”

“Odd business for you to be in then?”

“Hmm? Oh, social work. Yes. Well. What can I say?” She took a large sip of her drink. “Are you eating your pizza with a knife and fork?”

“Of course I am. How about your eleventh birthday?”

“Oh, that one’s easy to remember. We visited the British Library.”

“You went to a _library_ on your eleventh birthday?”

“Not just any library, Drake. The British Library. It’s the largest library in the entire world, in terms of total numbers of items. It has 14 million books.” Her voice was laced with awe. “Of course, when I finally went to the Bodleian Library, I was even more impressed. It’s not as large as the British Library, but it’s much more beautiful. And the reverence they have for books there—unparalleled.”

“Is that where you went for your twelfth birthday?”

“No, that birthday was … not as much fun.” Hermione caught herself before she said anything. Her twelfth birthday was, of course, the first one she had spent at Hogwarts. It had been before she had really come to know Ron and Harry—she had just been the brainy, bossy girl with buck teeth, bushy hair, and no friends. She strained to recall what she had actually done for her birthday, but she drew a blank. There must have been presents from home, but more likely than not, she had just spent it doing homework. 

“Why not?”

“Oh … well … I had just started attending a new school, so I didn’t know anyone. And I was a bit bossy,” she admitted, “so I didn’t make friends very easily.”

“Well,” he said, pouring them both more soda, “if I had known you back then, I would have been friends with you.”

Hermione laughed like she thought that this was the funniest thing she had heard in quite some time, because, well, it was.

“Why do you find that so amusing?” he asked, putting the bottle back in the refrigerator.

“I just … I don’t know. I’m sorry for laughing. What makes you think that?”

“Well, how about this: you are smart and sharp, and I like talking to you much more than I like talking to any of the idiots I work with. I assume that as a child, I was also smart and sharp, and I would have, at the very least, enjoyed teasing you.”

“Teasing someone does not make them your friend.”

“It would have been good-natured teasing, Granger.”

_Hardly_ , she thought. She felt herself getting slightly angry—how dare he describe what he did to her, Ron, and Harry as ‘good-natured teasing’? Of course, she reminded herself, he didn’t remember any of that. He’s just making conjectures based on the information that he has. She took a deep breath and reacquainted herself with the present.

“Plus,” he added, “You are very pretty. I would have wanted to be your friend from the first moment I saw you.”

At this, she felt her face grow hot. “I was … rather awkward-looking at twelve. I am certain that you would not found me the least bit attractive.”

“I highly doubt that,” he said, chewing a piece of crust and giving her a very odd smile.

“Well,” she said, “you were likely a complete prat as a twelve-year old. Probably the type of fellow who slicked his hair back.” She was walking in dangerous territory now, but he was smiling at her, so she continued. “I can’t imagine that we would have been friends.”

“I suppose we’ll never know,” he said. The way he was looking at her was making her heart beat in an exceedingly irregular pattern.

“No,” was the only word she managed. She looked down at her plate. That helped. “Thank you for the pizza. It was really quite delicious.”

“My pleasure.”

She took their plates to the sink. She couldn’t look at him right now. Not when she could feel his eyes sweeping over her body, not when she could hear that strange tone in his voice.

“You don’t have to wash those, Granger.”

“I don’t mind.” The cold water helped to refocus her brain.

He touched her bare arm. That undid the refocusing. “Just leave them.”

“There are only these two little plates,” she said, scrubbing them industriously. “There, see?” She put them in the drying rack. “Now the glasses.” She made her way back to the table.

“Leave them,” he said. “Really.”

“It’s no problem.”

“Hermione?”

“Yes?” She turned to him, her heart in her throat. Where had this feeling come from? She had been completely fine until he had started giving her those looks. 

“Do you … want to go for a little walk?”

“That sounds lovely.” More than lovely. That sounded like the best idea she’d ever heard. Especially compared to all of the other things he could have just asked her. Like, for example, ‘What were you just thinking about?’ because the answer to _that_ involved the memory of him shirtless by the duck pond.


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Dessert"

**Saturday Night**

“Probably too dark for the park,” he said. The sun had set. A slight chill hung in the air as they walked down the neighborhood streets. “But there’s a semi-charming little downtown area a few blocks from here. I’d say we could get ice cream, but that would negate the dessert I’ve got back in the flat.”

“You made me dessert too?” 

“Not really. I just bought you a vat of chocolate frosting.”

Hermione furrowed her brow before remembering the ridiculous way she’d avoided mentioning Chocolate Frogs. “Oh, of course. My favorite candy. Your memory is somewhat startling, Mr. Malford.”

“Now there’s an innovative way of putting it,” he chuckled softly. 

She thought about apologizing for her choice of words, but he seemed to be in good spirits. “I do appreciate the frosting, and it does indeed sound delicious, but I think I’d rather like some ice cream.”

“As you wish.” He extended his right elbow to her. She looked at it, then him, then back to it. She raised an eyebrow at him.

Oh, what the hell?

She took his elbow and walked closer to him, feeling the heat radiate from his body to hers. 

“You smell nice,” he said.

“I probably smell like pizza.”

“Like pizza and you.”

She said nothing. Her head felt fizzy.

They walked in silence until they came to the small downtown area. There were, among other things, a bookstore, a convenience store, a small theater, and an ice cream parlor with a queue stretching out the door. “Looks like a popular spot,” she observed as they took their place in the queue. “Must be good.”

“It’s the best,” said the man in front of them. He was portly and balding. 

“What flavor do you recommend?” Hermione asked. If she stood on her tiptoes, she could see the menu. She couldn’t make out any words, but it seemed rather extensive. 

“Well, I like the rum raisin. But my wife swears by toasted almond. And the kids have their own opinions.” He patted the heads of two small children in front of him. They turned to Hermione. The young boy smiled at her while the older girl fidgeted. 

“What are your favorite flavors?” She leaned down to ask them.

“Chocolate!” the boy shouted. 

“What about you?” she asked the girl.

The girl mumbled something. 

“Speak up, Tara.”

“Cherry vanilla,” she said, just loud enough to be audible.

“Mmm, those all sound good. Which do you think you’ll get, Drake?” she turned back up to him, but he wasn’t looking at her. In fact, he was looking in the exact opposite direction, as if he were desperately trying to hide himself from …

“Drake Malford? Is that you?” trilled a voice in front of them. Drake sighed audibly and turned towards it.

“Hullo, Clem,” he nodded towards the voice. It belonged to a middle-aged woman with reddish hair and thick glasses. 

“Hullo yourself. I don’t know if I’ve ever seen you outside the office, and now it’s twice in one weekend. So what brings you to … my, who is this?” she asked, noticing Hermione for the first time.

“This is Hermione,” he said simply.

“Pleased to meet you.” Hermione shook hands with the woman. "Is this your family?” she asked.

“Yes, yes. This is my husband, Bill, and my children, Tara and Andrew.” 

“Ah, of course. Drake has told me all about you. Tara, you’ve just had a clarinet recital, haven’t you?”

Tara looked at the ground and muttered something, but Clem smiled broadly. “Why yes, she has. And she was simply marvelous.”

Clem continued to talk as they shuffled forward in the queue. Drake looked exceedingly uncomfortable. “So do you live nearby, Hermione?” she asked.

“Not especially,” she replied.

“Oh, we don’t either. I’d like to, of course, because it’s so close to the office, but Bill works in London, so we picked somewhere in between. I certainly wouldn’t mind living closer to this ice cream, though.”

“It’s that good?” Hermione asked.

“Yes,” Clem, Bill, and Andrew replied in unison. Even Tara looked like she had thought about speaking.

Hermione laughed. “Well, I look forward to tasting it then!”

“So Drake,” Bill asked, “Clem tells me you just started up at the company a couple months ago.”

“That’s right.”

“How are you liking it?”

“It’s fine.”

“Right, then. Did you just move here recently?”

“Oh look!” Hermione said, pointing to the movie theater marquee. “They’re having a zombie movie marathon on Halloween!” Hermione was not even remotely interested in zombie movies, not after hearing Harry describe his encounters with the Inferi, but Draco was giving poor Bill Seymour a positively poisonous glare.

Clem shuddered dramatically. “Not for me, thanks.”

“Clemmie doesn’t have the stomach for that sort of thing.” Bill patted his wife’s hand affectionately. “I have to see all the good movies by myself.”

“I beg your pardon,” Clem said. “I have exceptional taste in films.”

“Of course, dear. I suppose that I _should_ thank you for not dragging me to that play next weekend.”

“Believe you me, I wasn’t planning on going myself. Are you, Drake?”

“Am I what?” He had been examining his fingernails intensely.

“Going to the play that Rick got tickets for? The Shakespeare one? He thought it would be a good office bonding experience, but no one wants to go. Not even him. What’s the one … the comedy? Got a number in the title.”

“ _Twelfth Night_?” Hermione asked.

“That’s it. Dunno what Rick is thinking, asking us to see Shakespeare. Can’t understand a word of it myself.”

“It’s not so hard if you pay close attention,” Hermione said. “It’s actually rather fun sometimes to puzzle out the trickiest bits.”

“Bah,” she said, waving her hands in dismissal. “But it certainly sounds like you would enjoy it then. Why don’t you get a pair of tickets from Rick, Drake?”

“I have done,” he said simply.

“Oh. Well then. Why didn’t you say so?”

“I just did.” 

“Right.” She laughed a bit uneasily. “Well, looks like we’re almost at the front of the queue. I’d better look after my family, make sure they don’t order quintuple scoops. It was lovely meeting you, Hermione. See you on Monday, Drake.” She smiled at both of them and joined her family at the counter. 

Draco exhaled mightily. Hermione turned him. “It wasn’t that bad,” she whispered. He rolled his eyes in non-reply. “So what flavor are you going to get?”

“You pick for me.” 

She ordered strawberry for herself and mint chocolate chip for him. As they walked outside licking their cones, he made a small “Hmm,” noise.

“What’s the problem?”

“It kind of tastes like toothpaste. With chocolate in it.” 

“You don’t like mint chocolate chip? Why didn’t you say so?”

“I wasn’t sure that I didn’t like it. I don’t know if I’ve had it before.”

“Would you like to switch? I’m an equal-opportunity fan of ice cream.”

She held her strawberry cone to him. He chuckled.

“What’s so funny? I don’t have cooties, Malford.”

“No, it’s not that. I just have a complex relationship with strawberry ice cream.”

“Okay. So does that mean you’d like to switch?”

“I think I would.” They exchanged cones. “Thank you. And …” he said, just as Hermione had been about to say something, “Thank you for not dissecting the interaction we just had with my co-worker.”

She closed her mouth. He had, after all, been right. “For your _information_ ,” she sniffed, “that was not what I was going to do.”

“Oh no?” he arched his eyebrows in surprise. He obviously did not believe her.

‘No. I was merely going to ask how you liked your new flavor.”

“Before I even tasted it?”

“…Yes.”

“Such foresight on your part.”

“Indeed.”

“So?”

“So what?”

“How do you like it?”

He licked around the sides of the cone judiciously. “Quite nice. Better than frosting out of a vat, if I do say so myself. And you?”

“Me what?” she had been, she realized to her chagrin, somewhat transfixed by the sight of his tongue racing along the rim of the cone.

“How is your new flavor? Fluoride ‘n chips?”

“Marvelous.” 

They ate in silence as they walked back to his flat. The night was cool and damp and companionable. 

“I do have one question, though.”

He sighed grievously. “Only one? I have great difficulty believing that.”

“Relax. It has very little to do with anything too unbearable. I was just wondering whom you were taking to see _Twelfth Night_ next weekend?”

“You, of course.”

“Funny, I don’t recall being asked.”

“That’s because I haven’t asked you yet.”

“But you’re sure that you’re taking me?”

“Yes.”

“Such confidence.”

“So would you like to go with me?”

“No.”

“You don’t mean that.”

“How do you know?”

“Because I can read your mind.”

“I highly doubt that.”

“Try me.”

“Alright. What number am I thinking of?”

“Fourteen.”

“Not even close.”

“What was it then?”

“Seven hundred.”

“Seven hundred exactly?”

“Yes.”

“What an odd choice.”

“Well, you couldn’t guess it.”

“I don’t use my powers for parlor tricks. Legillimency is far too serious for that.”

She stopped walking. “What did you call it?”

“Legillimency.” He continued to eat his ice cream, giving her a perplexed look. “Isn’t that … another name for mind reading?”

“Not that I’ve heard of.” Her stomach began to knot up. 

“Huh. You know, now that I think about it, I’m not sure where I even came up with that word. But it sounds impressive, doesn’t it?” He smiled at her and began to walk again.

“I suppose.”

“I must’ve read it somewhere.” He didn’t seem the least bit disturbed. She let it pass, hoping that he would write it off as a bit of nonsense from a fantasy book or sci-fi show that had somehow seeped into his brain. “So onto more important matters,” he continued, popping the last of the cone into his mouth. “ _Twelfth Night_. It starts at three o’clock next Saturday. I could pick you up at your place.”

“No,” she nearly shouted. “I mean … that would be silly. It’s only a few blocks from here, isn’t it?”

“Yes.”

“I’ll just meet you at your flat.”

He grinned at her. “See? I knew you’d come.”

\----------------------------------

When they got back to his flat, Hermione had every intention of saying goodbye at the door. This intention was foiled by a desperate need to pee. No matter, she reasoned to herself. It would only take a few minutes. Then she’d thank him for dinner, say a polite goodbye, and that would be the end of it. 

It was a solid plan.

It was also, however, a plan doomed to failure, because when she got out of the bathroom, he had taken off his shoes, hung her jacket back up in the closet, and was making tea.

“It’s too late for tea. I’ll be up all night,” she protested.

“Chamomile,” he called from the kitchen.

“One cup,” she sighed. “And then I have to go.”

“I’ll take it.”

She sat on the couch as he busied himself in the kitchen. When he brought the tea in and sat next to her, she cursed herself for choosing the couch over the recliner. 

“Thanks.” 

“Of course.”

She blew on the tea to cool it, wishing she could do the same for her skin, which was growing noticeably warmer as he shifted a bit on the couch, letting his thigh rest next to hers. 

“I should thank you, though,” he said.

“For what?”

“This was the nicest evening I’ve had in as long as I can remember. And you know, of course, that I’m not exaggerating when I say that.”

“I know.” Her voice didn’t sound like her voice. She took a tiny sip of her tea, but it was too hot. She put the mug down on the table. He put his next to hers.

They sat there, not saying anything, for what seemed like a very long time. Curls of steam rose from the twin mugs of tea. Hermione watched as they spiraled, intertwined, and dissipated.

“Hermione?”

“Yes?” She tried not to look at him, but couldn’t. Soft lamplight fell on his pale skin, the dull shadows making his face look even more angular. His eyes had none of the coldness she had seen in them during their years at Hogwarts. Every breath she drew sent a quivering sensation throughout her body.

“Are you just here because it’s your job to be here?”

“No.”

“Then why are you here?”

“You know the answer to that.”

“I want you to tell me.”

He caressed the side of her face with his hand. His touch was warm and soft; his thumb brushed against her cheek. She licked her lips. They stayed dry. 

“Because,” she whispered. “I like being with you.”

He moved his face closer to hers. She closed her eyes. She could feel his breath heating her upper lip, his nose brushing gently against hers … and then she felt his lips descending slowly onto hers. She pressed her lips back against his. He tasted like chamomile tea and strawberry ice cream. He smelled like autumn air and his shampoo.

His lips became more insistent, parting hers to allow his tongue to dart in quickly, brushing against her lips. She moved her hands to his head, relishing in the feeling of his silky hair against her fingers. Their kiss deepened, tongues meeting and dancing together as their bodies pressed closer. 

She pulled back, breaking their embrace. “Drake … I …” But she didn’t know what to say. His face was flushed, his hair was rumpled, his eyes were giving her a look that filled her with heat. So instead of saying anything further, she instead drew him back towards her and kissed him with a renewed energy. 

They fell back onto the couch, he on top of her. Her hands roamed beneath his shirt, savoring the muscular curves of his back and chest. His breath caught as she grazed a nipple with her fingernails. He leaned back, pulling his shirt over his head. She did the same, desperate to feel his skin against hers. When they reconnected, she moaned softly. His skin was warm and soft; she wasn’t sure she’d ever felt anything so amazing in her life. She could feel him through his khakis, pressing hard and hot against her side. She was half-certain that he could feel her heat against his leg as well. He pulled his mouth from hers and began to kiss her jaw, her earlobes, her neck. Her heartbeat grew even more erratic as he sucked the tender flesh at her pulsepoint.

He moved lower, covering her chest and the tops of her breasts with kisses. His hands began to fumble with the clasp of her bra; she reached behind her and helped him, tossing the bra to the floor without a second thought. He caressed her breasts tenderly before clasping one of her nipples in his mouth. She groaned and ground herself against his thigh. He responded by grabbing her ass and sucking harder. She cried out and dug her nails into his back.

“Fuck, Granger,” he whispered throatily. 

She came out of her fog briefly. “Did I hurt you?” She looked up at him.

“I like it,” he said, returning his attention to her breasts. She sunk back down into the couch, running her hands through his hair, moaning softly. 

He moved lower, kissing her ribcage, her navel, her hips. As he moved to unbutton her jeans, she drew back. 

“Drake … I don’t ...”

“Okay.” He rebuttoned them and returned to her lips. 

“It’s just …” she began, pulling back again.

“You don’t have to explain, Hermione.” He moved back to her neck.

“Thank you.”

“I don’t have any rubbers anyway,” he said in between kisses. 

She didn’t actually say anything in reply, as he was currently rendering her non-verbal by reassuming his mouth’s exploration of her breasts.

“But I _would_ like to touch you,” he whispered in her ear. His words sent a fresh burst of heat between her thighs. Her knickers were alarmingly wet.

“Just touch?”

“Just touch.”

She unbuttoned her pants for him. He growled slightly and pressed his forehead against hers. He kissed along her collarbone as his hands inched southward, tracing the edge of her knickers. She kicked off her shoes and tugged at her jeans until they were on the floor next to her bra. 

Slowly, deliberately, he brushed his fingers against the silky material of her knickers. She bucked her hips up against his touch. He sucked at a spot on her neck and dipped his fingers past the waistband, caressing her hair softly. She moaned deeply, desperate for a release of the pressure building between her legs. 

He inserted one finger gently, issuing a guttural groan at her wetness. He added a second and began to stroke her clit, slowly at first, then faster and with more pressure as her breathing grew more ragged. He took her nipple into his mouth, and shifted positions, allowing himself to push his fingers deeper.

Suddenly, Hermione’s world contracted and exploded, colors bursting across the backs of her eyelids in wild kaleidoscope patterns. She clutched his shoulders and cried out, losing all sense of place or time. Her senses returned slowly, floating down to her as if on feathers. She opened her eyes. He was giving her a deep, hungry look. His chest rose and fell quickly. 

She had no idea what to say. But then again, she didn’t really want to talk. She wanted to make him feel like _that_. So she maneuvered herself so that she was on top of him and covered his mouth with hers. She left his lips and moved to his jawline and down his neck, alternating between licking, sucking, and biting softly. He squirmed beneath her, his breath came in gasps and sighs. She was delighted to discover that the juncture between his neck and shoulders was a particularly sensitive area; the slightest flick of her tongue there elicited a deep, throaty growl. He cupped her ass with his hands, pushing himself against her. 

She moved down to his chest, grazing his nipples with her teeth. She traveled down further still, tracing the waistband of his boxer shorts with her tongue as she ran her hand softly over the bulge in his khakis. He drew in breath sharply.

“ _Hermione_.” His voice was half whisper, half plea.

She said nothing, but undid his button and zipper. His pants soon joined most of her clothing on the floor. Her left hand slid up one leg slowly, reaching just inside the leg of his boxers. Her right hand tugged his boxers down slightly, allowing just the tip of his cock to escape from the waistband. She looked up to meet his eyes, but he wasn’t looking at her just then; instead, his head was tilted back against the couch pillows, his chin pointing towards the ceiling. Beads of sweat stood on his chest and stomach. She pulled his boxers entirely off and moved up to lay next to him, running one hand slowly up and down the side of his body. He had one hand buried in her hair and the other was gripping her shoulder so tightly she thought he might be leaving marks. 

Her fingers gently descended on the tip of his cock, spreading the pearly precum across the head. He moaned deeply as she moved her hand down the shaft, pumping him slowly. With her other hand, she lightly caressed his scrotum, cupping his balls gently. His cock grew hotter and stronger in her hand. As his breathing quickened, she increased her pace and the tightness of her grip. His breaths turned into groans. His groans turned into “Oh Fuck. Oh _Fuck_.” He clamped down harder on her shoulder, wrapped his fist around her hair. Suddenly, he cried out, muscles contracting violently as hot cum spurted over her fingers and across his stomach. She slowed her hand and softly loosened her grip. He shuddered and sighed, removing his hand from her hair and bringing it to his forehead.

She grabbed the closest piece of clothing—it happened to be her shirt—and wiped off her hand and his stomach. Then she settled her head on his chest and listened as his heartbeat began to slow. He draped his arm across her and kissed her head.

“You know,” he said. His voice was slightly hoarse. “I didn’t plan on all that. I only wanted to kiss you.”

“Well I only planned on using your bathroom and going home.”

He chuckled softly and stroked her hair. “Do you regret it?” 

“No. Do you?”

“Definitely not.”

And somehow, she meant it: she really, truly _didn’t_ regret it. Not a second of it. As she listened to his heart and felt his breath against her forehead, she silently marveled at her current situation—here she was, almost naked on a couch with a _completely_ naked Draco Malfoy, whose skin was somewhat sticky due to being covered with a combination of her saliva and his cum, whose fingers smelled like her, whose back was covered in marks from her nails, a man who had made her climax in what might have been record time.

After she had broken up with Ron, she had indeed wondered what it would be like to be intimate with another man. Almost all of her firsts had been with Ron. Viktor had been her first kiss, and she had let him grope her a bit on the outside of her jumper, but that had been as far it had gone. Ron had been the first one to touch her, the first one she’d seen naked, the first one she’d gone down on, the first one she’d ever slept with. But all of those firsts had taken weeks, months, years to get to. There had been steps, order, a hierarchy. The first time she’d gotten her hands down his trousers was six months after they had had their first kiss. Based on this information, she had figured that every relationship she had after Ron would feature a similar progression. And indeed, she reasoned, there _had_ been a hierarchy tonight—first they kissed, then she took her bra off, then she was wiping cum off his stomach. The hierarchy was intact; it had simply been condensed into the span of a few hours. 

Everything with Ron had been so clumsy at the beginning—to be fair, of course, much of the awkwardness had stemmed from her lack of experience. Although he and Lavender had done “everything but,” in his words, most of Hermione’s knowledge of human sexuality had come from the _Our Bodies, Ourselves_ book her parents had bought her when she had started her period. So when she had first attempted to give Ron a blow job, she had required quite a bit of patient instruction on his part. And, she recalled, despite his previous experiences with Lavender, it had taken him what seemed like _ages_ to figure out what he was doing when he got into her knickers. Of course, once he had gotten the hang of things, it had been very nice, but it hadn’t been nearly as intense as anything she had felt tonight with Draco, who had seemed to know exactly where and how she wanted to be touched. And Ron had _never_ made sounds like Draco had made tonight. Never. 

The memory of that made her shiver. 

“Cold?” he asked.

“A little.” She was, in fact, a bit chilly. She was still positioned on top of him, meaning that he was the beneficiary of her body heat, whereas she only had a very damp pair of cotton knickers protecting her from the elements. “I’d put my shirt back on, but it’s not particularly clean at the moment.”

He rubbed her arms with his hands. “That was a noble sacrifice your shirt made there. You could have used mine, you know.”

“Mine was closer. You were apparently trying to set some sort of distance record in flinging yours,” she said, gesturing to the crumpled oxford shirt that was currently almost in the kitchen.

“That _is_ rather impressive, isn’t it?”

She sat up and pawed at her hair. “I don’t even want to know what this looks like right now.” “I think it’s rather sexy,” he said, patting it appreciatively.

“Yours is also looking a bit rumpled, you know.” 

“Yes, but I can do this,” he said, giving his platinum tufts three or four smoothing strokes. “And it looks fairly decent. Yours looks like it might require some sort of pulley system. ”

“Well aren’t you lucky?” she asked with mock sourness. She gave up on her hair and crossed her arms over her breasts. “So can I borrow a shirt from you?”

“I suppose.” He got off the couch, retrieved his boxers from the floor, and walked into his bedroom. When he returned, he was carrying the same T-Shirt and running shorts that he had lent her after the rainstorm. She smiled when she saw them. “Recognize these, do you?” 

“They fit me so well the first time,” she said, pulling the shirt over her head. It hung down to her thighs. 

“They smelled like you,” he said. “Even after you’d washed them. When I put them on that day in the park, they smelled so much like you that I could barely stand it. In a good way,” he added, seeing the scowl on her face.

“Turn around for a second.”

He complied. She pulled off her knickers and put his shorts on. 

“Thank you.” 

“Commando?” he asked, turning back around to face her. 

She rolled her eyes. “What do you think? It’s not like I carry a spare pair of knickers in my bag. I don’t suppose you have any I could borrow?”

“Hold on, let me think. No, no, I’m fairly certain that the Cookie Hookers took theirs home with them. Sorry.”

“Pity.”

“Indeed. Look, I’m just going to nip into the shower for a minute. Make yourself at home. Frosting is in the cupboard.” He grinned at her and gathered up his scattered articles of clothing from the floor before disappearing into the bathroom. 

Hermione collected her clothing as well, folding it into a small bundle and setting it next to her bag. Then she went to the kitchen, got herself a glass of water, and considered the pros and cons of snooping through his flat while he was cleaning himself off. On the one hand, she would really like to know if he had a secret stash of wand-like branches or things that might resemble potion ingredients. On the other hand, if he caught her looking through his things, she would lose his trust. That was nothing she wanted to risk. So instead, she dumped out their cold chamomile tea, washed out the mugs, and returned to the couch. 

The shower stopped. She heard the curtain draw back. “Do you realize that it’s nearly two in the morning?” he called from behind the door.

“What, do you have a clock in your shower?” she called back.

“Of course.” He stepped out, a towel wrapped around his waist. “Don’t you?”

“No.” _Merlin_ , he looked amazing in a towel. She wasn’t even attempting not to stare. 

“You like what you see, Granger?”

She lifted her chin. “I am simply evaluating your taste in towels.”

“And?”

“You have excellent taste in towels.”

“Thank you.” He walked into the bedroom and reemerged wearing nothing but a pair of clean boxers. He hung his towel up in the bathroom. “And are you now evaluating my taste in underwear?”

“You have similarly excellent taste in underwear,” she said. Good _grief_ , his abs were gorgeous. 

“Thank you. And you have excellent taste in baggy running shorts.” 

She threw a couch pillow at him. He caught it with one hand and took a sip of her water. 

“I didn’t say you could drink that, you know.”

He spit the water back into the glass.

“You are _vile_ ,” she said.

“Yes, that was fairly childish of me, wasn’t it? You are, however, the one who attempted to start a pillow fight.”

“I suppose I’ll just have to get myself a fresh glass of water while you enjoy your backwash.”

He followed her into the kitchen. As she filled a new glass at the sink, he put his arms around her from behind and buried his face in her neck. He knew that if he had started kissing her at that moment, they would have ended right back up on the couch, but he didn’t. Instead, he simply murmured: “You’ll stay, won’t you?”

She was caught somewhat off guard, both by his words and the closeness of his body. “What?”

“Tonight. You’ll stay here?”

“Oh. I … I don’t know, Drake.”

“Please? It’s late. We don’t have to … do anything else. Just stay. With me. Tonight.” 

She chewed her lip. “I just…”

“I can even stay on the couch. You can have my bed. Please.” 

She turned towards him. His eyes were so soft. She put her hand behind his head and brought him closer, kissing him tenderly. She could feel him harden against her, but he made no move to escalate beyond their simple embrace. 

“Alright,” she said. “And we can share your bed. But … chastely. I’m tired.”

“Of course.” He smiled and pressed his lips to her forehead.

\---------

He had found her an extra toothbrush and she had taken a quick shower. The quick shower was mostly nullified, however, when he caught sight of her in one of his towels, which led to an encounter on his bed that bore a striking resemblance to the earlier episode on his couch.

When they were both completely spent, she lay next to him, head hazy, drunk with the smell of his skin, and managed to murmur: “I said _chastely_.”

“Mmm. That you did.” He kissed her shoulder.

She settled her head on his chest and pulled the sheets up over them. “Goodnight, Drake.”

“Goodnight, Hermione.” 

His breathing became slow and even. She closed her eyes and fell into a deep, satisfied sleep. \-----------------

She woke with a start three hours later. He was twitching violently in his sleep, muttering something completely incomprehensible.

“Drake?” she whispered. His face was an eerie gray in the weak dawnlight that seeped between the blinds.

“I can’t,” he hissed.

“Drake?”

“Please. Please don’t make me do this.” 

She shook his shoulder. “Drake? Wake up.”

“Father, _please_.” His voice was a whimper. “Not this.”

Hermione was fully awake now. And she realized what he was dreaming about. 

“I don’t want your help! Don’t you understand? I have to do this! I have to kill you … otherwise they’re going to kill me!”

“ _Drake_.” She shook him harder. Suddenly, he bolted up into a sitting position. He clutched his left forearm and cried out. His eyes snapped open and he began to gulp for breath. 

“It’s okay,” she said, grasping his shoulders in her hands. His body was covered with a cold sweat. “Shh. It’s okay. It was just a dream.” 

He looked around wildly, body completely tense. “Her … Hermione?” His voice was very small.

“Shh.” She pushed his hair from his face, ran her hands in soothing patterns across his back. “Calm down. Everything is okay.”

“Oh God,” he said, leaning back on the pillow. “It was so fucking real that time.” He kept his right hand clasped around his forearm.

“What was going on?”

“I was on a tower. I was holding something in my hand. A weapon, but I don’t understand what weapon. I can’t explain it. And there was an old man in front of me. With a long beard. And I knew in my heart that I was supposed to hate him. And part of me did hate him. And I also knew that I had to kill him. That someone had made me promise to kill him. But I don’t know why. And I was so close to seeing them this time. Closer than before. When I turned around, they were gone, same as always, but this time, instead of blank space, there was this … other man.”

“Another man?” She knew who he was talking about. Her blood began to run cold.

“Not a man. Like a man, but also a … snake somehow? That’s not quite right. I don’t know. But he looked straight at me ... and his eyes … oh God. That was bad. That was the worst one yet.” He got out of bed.

“Where are you going?”

“Water.”

She followed him to the kitchen, where she found him sitting at the table, trembling slightly. She brought him a glass of water. He mumbled a thank you, but didn’t drink it yet. She sat and pulled her chair close to him, slowly prying his right hand off of his left forearm. She looked at it carefully, praying that there would be no traces of the Dark Mark. It had disappeared after Voldemort had died, of course, but she was not about to take any chances. Thankfully, his skin was blank. Before she really understood what she was doing, she leaned over and kissed the empty spot. 

This seemed to snap him out of his trance. He took a deep breath and let it out slowly. When she looked up at him, tears were standing in his eyes.

“Why did you do that?” he asked in a barely audible voice. “Why did you kiss me there?”

“Because I wanted to.”

He took a sip of water and swiped at his eyes with the heels of his hands. 

“I’m alright,” he said.

“Let’s go back to bed, Drake.”

He said nothing, but let her lead him back into the bed, where she pulled the covers up around them and cradled him in her arms. 

It was quite a while before either of them fell asleep.


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> More "dessert." And other stuff.

**Sunday**

When Hermione woke again, the room was bright, the clock said 9:30, and she was alone. She got out of bed and peeked out into the flat.

“Drake?”

No answer. But there was, she soon discovered, a note taped to the bathroom mirror. 

_Went for a run. Be back soon. Your clothes are in the wash._  
_-DM_

He had certainly been right about one thing, she mused. His handwriting _did_ look like an ornate computer font. She wondered how much his parents had paid for those lessons and how long he’d had to practice before his natural handwriting made even the most cursory of notes resemble an overly dramatic wedding invitation. 

Hermione pulled the wet clothes from the washer and put them into the dryer. She then brushed her teeth and took a shower. The one she took last night had really been more of a quick rinse; now, she took the time to wash her hair and scrub a bit more conscientiously. When she had dried off and tamed her hair as best she could, she checked on the clothes in the dryer. They were still rather damp, so she put on her bra and the T-shirt and shorts she had worn last night. Going commando was better than being caught casting a quick-dry spell. 

Just as she was about to put on a pot of tea, she heard the door open and Draco walk in. He hung his keys up on the ring by the door.

“Hey,” she said, poking her head out of the kitchen. 

He looked up from unlacing his trainers and smiled at her. “Hey yourself.”

His face was bright pink. Sweat plastered his shirt to his body. 

“How far did you run?”

“I don’t know. I just run until I think I might die, then I turn around and run back. Could you toss me a banana?”

She found one in the kitchen and threw it to him. “I’ll make pancakes while you shower,” she offered.

“Who said anything about showering?” he said, stuffing the banana in his mouth. “I happen to enjoy my natural musk.” 

She wrinkled her nose at him. “If you want pancakes, you have to shower first.”

“You drive a hard bargain, Granger.” He finished the banana and joined her in the kitchen. “Hold your nose if you must; I need water.”

He didn’t actually smell that bad; mostly just like sweat and the outdoors. She told him as much as he downed a glass in one draught. “It helps that it’s pleasantly chilly out there,” he said, filling a second glass. “Flour is in the cupboard over the sink.”

“Thanks. Drake?”

“Baking powder is up there too.”

“That wasn’t what I was going to ask.”

“Maple syrup is in the fridge.”

“That either.”

“I don’t want to talk about it, Hermione.” He finished the second glass.

“But …”

“Really. I’m fine. It was just a dream. I have bad dreams all the time. Once you wake up, they go away. That’s the beauty of dreams.” He put the glass down in the sink. 

She gave him a hard look. His face remained unreadable. “But they’re getting worse?”

“Not worse … just … more vivid. Look, I’d really rather not talk about it right now. I need a shower. We can talk later.”

“That’s what you told me last night. Before we went out. You said things were getting worse, but you didn’t want to talk about it, and you’d tell me later. It’s later.”

He sighed and opened a can of almonds. He popped a few into his mouth and offered the rest to her.

“No thank you.”

“Protein.”

“I’m aware of that. Drake, don’t avoid the question.”

“Look, it was about the dreams. That’s what I was going to tell you last night. That the dreams were coming more frequently and getting more detailed. The boring office dream, for < example. Sometimes I can read the weird language on the computer screen.”

“What does it say?”

“It makes no sense. It’s something like bits of fairytales. I don’t really read things in order, so I don’t have any concept of narrative structure, but there are weird animals and people with odd-sounding names.”

“What about the other dreams?”

“The flying dream is still a good dream. It’s even better than it was before, actually, because there are people watching me when I fly, and they’re cheering me on. Sometimes I think—this is going to sound very strange, but I suppose that’s not a surprise—sometimes it’s like I’m playing football and flying at the same time. I’m still not sure what I’m doing, but it’s exciting, and it’s fun, and I never want to wake up from that one.”

“And the other sort of dream? 

“Yes, well, you had a front-row seat for that last night. Butter is in the door on the side of the fridge.” He stuffed one more handful of almonds into his mouth and put the can back into the pantry. “I’ll be out of the shower in a few minutes.” He started to walk out of the kitchen.

“Drake?”

He turned to her. His expression told her very plainly that he was quite done talking about his dreams. “Yes?”

“I … I had a very nice time with you last night.”

His face softened. “Me too, Granger. Thanks for staying.”

She smiled at him and took the flour out of the cabinet. 

\-----  
She put three pancakes on each plate and set the syrup in the middle of the table.

“That smells phenomenal,” he called from the bathroom.

“What?” She poked her head out from the kitchen.

“I said it smells phenomenal,” he repeated. He stepped out of the bathroom with a towel wrapped around his waist. He caught her looking at him and grinned. “Admiring the towel again?” he chuckled. “Did quite a number on me last night, you know.” He turned around so that she could see his back. Pink lines streaked down his flesh.

“How do you feel about cold pancakes?” she asked, taking a step towards him.

“That’s my favorite way to eat them.” 

“Mine too.” 

She took his hand and pulled him into the bedroom. He grabbed her hair with one hand and her ass with another, kissing her deeply. As the towel slid to the floor, Hermione’s breath caught in her throat. There was something incredibly sexy about the fact that he was naked while she was still fully clothed. She pushed him down onto the bed and straddled him, pinning his hands above his head. The more he strained to free them, the more pressure she applied. He groaned softly, obviously enjoying the struggle. She traced the line of his jaw with the tip of her tongue and then sucked intensely at spot on the base of his neck. As he thrashed and moaned beneath her, she felt the heat and wetness spreading between her legs. She freed his hands so that she could remove her T-shirt, desperate to feel his skin against hers. He unclasped her bra and pulled her against him. His skin was warm and smooth, and when it touched hers, it seemed to awaken every nerve in her body. She gasped and ground her hips gently against his erection. He responded by bucking upwards, pressing his cock into the groove between her legs. A thin, soaking wet layer of nylon was all that separated them. She rubbed herself against him, almost allowing herself to get carried away in the pleasure created by the friction. But she had other plans.

He tried to reposition himself so that he was on top of her, but she clamped down with her thighs. 

“Nope,” she whispered. She made her way down his neck and chest, licking and gently biting as she went. When she reached his navel, she let her breasts brush against his cock. He groaned, digging his fingers into the flesh of her upper arms. She moved lower, passing over his throbbing erection and kissing the insides of his thighs instead. She hovered over his testicles, letting first her breath, and then her tongue brush against them.

“ _Granger_ ,” he said through gritted teeth. She responded by running her tongue up one side of his shaft. He thrashed beneath her. She put her right hand at the base and covered his cock with her mouth, making circles around the tip with her tongue. 

“Fuck, Granger.” 

She took as much of him into her mouth as she could and began to pump him slowly, using her hand to keep the pace steady, flicking her tongue against the underside of the head. One of his hands wound itself in her hair, the other clasped a handful of sheets. She increased the speed of her hand and tongue, using her other hand to gently caress his balls. His breath became ragged, his moans intensified.

“I’m going to come. Holy _fuck_ , I’m going to come!” he said in a guttural whisper. 

With a loud cry, he bucked his hips up forcefully. Hot cum spurted into her mouth and over her hand and lips. She swallowed what she could and used his T-shirt to wipe away the rest. He had covered his face with his hands. When he removed them, he caught eyes with her. He looked slightly drugged. “Damn, Granger,” he managed to say.

“Good?” She smoothed his hair back and watched his chest rise and fall. 

“I suppose that’s a word for it. A highly inadequate word, but still a word.”

She smiled and kissed his forehead.

He reached up and pulled her lips towards his. She hesitated. “Don’t you want me to rinse out my m…” but before she could finish her sentence, his tongue was in her mouth.

Filled with a sudden energy, he flipped them over and dragged her to the edge of his bed, letting her legs dangle to the floor. Situating himself so that he was perpendicular to her, he began to kiss her neck and shoulders, using one hand to knead her breasts. He then began to lick each of her breasts tenderly, moving in a spiral that ended with her nipple, which he sucked until she cried out. He then moved southward, darting his tongue across her navel and grazing her hipbone with his teeth. She squirmed underneath him and whimpered slightly. The pressure between her legs was almost unbearable. 

He tugged at the shorts, pulling them over her ass and letting them hit the floor. He propped himself up on one elbow and skirted his fingers through her tufts of hair.

“ _Draco_ ,” she murmured. Dammit, how could she have slipped? She held her breath.

“I like it when you call me that,” he whispered in her ear. Before she could think any further about her mistake, he pressed his finger against her clit and slowly began to rub. She moaned and opened her eyes. He watched his fingers slide in and out of her and then met her eyes. 

“Do you like this?” he asked.

“Yessss.” She closed her eyes again. 

He covered her nipple with his mouth again and withdrew his fingers. She whimpered.

“Shhh,” he said. He moved so that he was kneeling on the floor and pulled her closer to him. She clutched at the sides of the bed and gulped for air. She could feel his breath hot against her sex. “May I?”

“Yessss.”

He growled slightly and gave her clit a long, firm stroke with his tongue. She cried out. It was so intense, so _warm_. Her grip on reality felt very fragile at the moment. He held her thighs firmly, alternating between licking and gently sucking her clit, probing her depths with his tongue. She felt him insert his finger and intensify the pressure on her clit. As he fucked her with his fingers and mouth, she felt her muscles begin to tense. He groaned into her; the vibration was enough to make her start to come.

“ _Ohhhhh_ ,” she cried. She felt the orgasm wash over her, originating between her legs but then spreading over the rest of her body, from her core to the tips of her fingers. She clutched at the sheets, balling them between her fists. With a final gasp, she shuddered and collapsed. He climbed back onto the bed and lay next to her.

“Good?” he asked, panting slightly.

“Mmmm. In…ade…quate … word.” Too many syllables. She reached out and attempted to pat his head. She missed and thumped the pillow instead.

He snickered softly and kissed her hand. “Granger, I’d love to stay here and cuddle with you until we both reach retirement age, but I am fucking _starving_.”

She sighed. “Oh, fine.” She propped herself up on her elbows. The room spun a little. 

He opened a drawer and dressed quickly. Hermione retrieved her bra from the floor and darted into the bathroom to clean up a bit. When she emerged, she saw that Draco had placed a neatly folded pile of her clean, dry knickers, pink shirt, and jeans on the floor outside of the bathroom. She pulled them on and joined him in the kitchen, where he was getting a plate of pancakes out of a beeping microwave.

“I was lying about enjoying cold pancakes,” he said. “I assume you were too.” He put three of the pancakes on her plate. 

“Yes, I suppose I was.” She poured syrup on them and tasted a forkful. They were dreadfully soggy. “Blech.”

He smirked at her. “Worth it.”

She managed to eat half of a pancake. “Double blech.”

“You want pumpkin juice? I think there’s some in the fridge.” He got up and began to rummage through the refrigerator.

Her fork clattered to the floor. The bite of pancake she was chewing seemed felt like a wad of cotton in her mouth. “What was that?”

He emerged from the fridge waving a carton of orange juice. He poured some into his glass. “You want some?”

She shook her head and picked up her fork from the floor.

“You sure?”

“Yes,” she said softly.

He scrutinized her face while he sipped the juice. “What?”

“Nothing.” If he didn’t remember saying it, there was no reason for her to tell him.

His glass slammed down on the table. “Did I fucking call it pumpkin juice again?”

“Again?”

“Yes, again. Bloody hell.” He took his dish to the sink. “On Wednesday at the market I spent fifteen minutes staring at the juice case. A stock boy comes up to me, asks if he could help.” He scraped Hermione’s uneaten pancakes into the trash and threw her dish in with his. Steam rose from the sink. “So I say, ‘Can’t seem to find the pumpkin juice.’” He scrubbed the dishes angrily. “The kid says, ‘Wot’s that then?’ I say, ‘Pumpkin juice. Are you daft?’ The kid, rightly, starts looking at me like I’m out of my bloody mind.” The dishes were transferred violently to the drainboard. “So I roll my eyes at the kid, figuring that he’s just being a little wanker. But then he says: ‘I don’t think we carry that. But we have orange juice if you’d like. Same color.’ And he hands me the carton of orange juice. So I say ‘Right, that’s what I meant,’ and give him a nod, and buy it and get out of the store.” He threw the silverware in after the dishes. “Where would I even come _up_ with that fucking idea? Have you ever fucking heard of pumpkin juice?”

“Don’t be so hard on yourself, Drake.” Hermione stood, but didn’t go over to him. He was gripping the counter so hard that she could see the veins in his arms. “You just mixed up your words. It’s not a big deal.”

He looked up at the ceiling and exhaled, rippling the platinum fringe of his hair. 

“They _are_ both orange,” she reasoned.

“You’re not helping, Granger.” 

“I know.” But she _would_ figure out how she could help him. There had to be a book somewhere with the answers. All she had to do was keep looking. Speaking of which, she had a veritable mountain of work that needed to get done. “Drake, I have to go. I have a ton of work to do.”

“Alright.”

“I’m sorry,” she said, bringing her water glass to the sink. He didn’t look at her. She seized his chin in her hand and directed his face towards her. “Drake? Things will get better. I promise.”

His eyes finally met hers. They were hard and cold. “Don’t make promises like that, Granger.”

“Why not?”

“Because you can’t keep them. You don’t know how to fix this. And you never will.”

“And you,” she said, removing her hands from his face, “don’t know me well enough to say that.”

A hint of a smile crossed his face. “I suppose I’ll just have to get to know you better, then, won’t I?”

Hermione stood on her toes and kissed him softly. “I suppose.” She walked into the living room and picked up her bag. 

“See you Thursday, then?”

“Yes, Thursday.” But as soon as the words were out of her mouth, she remembered. “No … not Thursday. I’m sorry. I have to meet with another client on Thursday.”

He arched an eyebrow at her. “Oh?”

“Yes. I … had to work around her schedule this week.” Hermione couldn’t believe how easily the lies came to her lips, but she was glad they did. She couldn’t very well tell him the truth. 

“But Saturday?”

“Absolutely. How could I pass up tickets to _Twelfth Night_ and a chance to meet your work mates?”

He rolled his eyes and made a sound of disgust. “Don’t expect any of them to show up. But if they do, they’ll be easily recognizable, as they will be the ones reading Cliffs Notes.”

“You,” she said, walking towards the door, “are a bit of a snob, aren’t you?”

“I am. Do you have a problem with that?”

“Not yet.” She smiled at him and slung her bag over her shoulder. “Look, Drake, I’m sorry that I can’t come on Thursday, but I want you to do something for me.”

“What?”

“I want you to keep some sort of a journal, or a log. I want you to keep track of things that happen that are confusing or troubling. Things you say, or see, or think.”

“No.”

“Drake,” she protested, “this is important.”

“Look, Granger …”

“No, you look.” She made her face as stern as possible. “I may have exchanged a variety of bodily fluids with you this weekend, but I am still your social worker. I want to help you, and I think this will help.”

He folded his arms and looked at the carpet. “Fine. But on one condition.”

“What?”

“You cannot read it until Sunday. I won’t have you thinking that I’m crazy and spending the entirety of Saturday looking at me like I’m some sort of wounded animal.”

“Do I look at you like that?”

“Sometimes. You did more in the beginning.”

“Er, sorry about that.” She shifted her weight from one foot to another. “Sunday will be fine.”

“Alright then.”

They stood in his doorway. Hermione had no idea why this was so awkward, considering everything they had done this weekend, but it seriously was. “I will see you on Saturday, then. So, uhm, enjoy your …”

He cut off the rest of her words with a kiss. 

“… week.”

“Goodbye, Ms. Granger.”

“Mr. Malford.” She gave him a polite nod and walked through the door.


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Harpies face the Magpies and Ron gets sloshed.

**Thursday**

“Quitting time, Hermione,” Harry said, leaning over her desk. 

“What? It’s only six.” 

“Your office is beginning to look like the world’s most unkempt library.”

“You should see my flat,” Hermione muttered. Harry snatched the quill from her hand, but with a flick of her wand, another quill took its place and began to write on a piece of parchment hovering over her head.

“How many documents are you writing at once?”

“Four,” she said. “It requires a good deal of concentration, but it saves time.”

“What are you working on?”

“This evening you mean? Shacklebolt asked me to do some research on a spell that the Death Eaters have been spotted using lately. You know, the one that liquefies your internal organs? So I figured I’d also work on a counter-charm while I’m at is. And Tiffy just lodged a formal complaint against the Greengrasses, so I’ve been looking into that as well.”

“And the fourth?”

“Hmm?”

Harry snatched the fourth piece of parchment out of the air. The quill squawked at him irritably until he tapped it with his wand. “Your handwriting is so ridiculously tiny.”

“Harry, give that back to me.”

“Who is Florizell Askew?”

“She was a witch. Will you give it back, please?”

“Hang on.” Harry kept reading her notes. “Hermione, does this have to do with …”

“You know that it does.”

“So it’s not getting better?”

“Not yet. But,” she added, snatching the parchment from his hands. “It’s not the end of the month yet, so I’m not done trying to handle this on my own.”

“Fair enough.” He held up his hands in surrender. “You want to head on over to the Burrow?”

“Just give me a minute.” Hermione used a shrinking charm on nearly every book in her office, stuffed them into her bag, and grabbed her coat. “Ok, let’s go.”

\--------  
Molly’s reception of Hermione was somewhat friendlier than it had been the last time she visited the Burrow, but it was still nowhere nearly as warm as it had been when she and Ron had been dating. Hermione tried to score some points by casting a spell that made the words on their GO GERI GO! and WE LOVE GINNY! signs appear three-dimensional, but everyone seemed more interested in the fact that she had accidentally worn a black and white jumper. 

“I’m sorry. I didn’t know that these are Magpies’ colors.”

“Well you could have looked it up,” Ron had said. “That _is_ what you’re good at, isn’t it?”

“No matter,” Arthur had said. With a wave of his wand, Hermione’s jumper was now the same dark green that the entire Weasley clan sported. “There, that’s better. So shall we go?”

\-----------  
Hermione tried her hardest to pay attention to the game. It wasn’t that she completely disliked Quidditch; on the contrary, she had enjoyed watching the Gryffindors play while she was at Hogwarts. But she had so many other things pressing down on her mind right now that it was difficult to care about a bunch of people flying around after balls. 

The stadium erupted in cheers around her. She had no idea what was happening, but she stood up and joined Ron and Harry’s whooping praises. 

“Good save, Geri!” Harry called.

“Atta girl!” Ron added

“Nicely done!” Hermione yelled. She sat when they did.

“That was brilliant,” Ron said. “Woollongang Shimmy. Works every time.” A dreamy smile was pasted across his face. 

Hermione swiftly agreed and resolved to focus on the match. But before she knew it, the swirling mass of wizards and wizards on the pitch seemed to dissolve and reshape themselves into his face. The wind on her skin felt like his hands, the pale moon became his eyes. 

It was so bloody _wrong_. On every single level. First, of course, he was _Draco Malfoy_. The boy that had tormented her and her friends for years. The boy that had called her a mudblood and wished that she were dead. The son of Lucius Malfoy. The boy who let Death Eaters into Hogwarts. The boy who was chosen to murder Albus Dumbledore. But it wasn’t just his past, it was his present … after all, he was her client, someone she had been given the responsibility to help. Was this really helping him?

And furthermore, there was the matter of their future. In short: there was none. There couldn’t be. What was she going to do? Renounce her life as a witch and move into his flat? She couldn’t do that. There were too many people she loved here, and too many responsibilities. So what other options did she have? Living a double life seemed nearly impossible; it was hard enough as it was. And it wasn’t as if she could just reverse the spell and give Draco his memories back. That would create an unimaginable nest of troubles, and she’d certainly lose her job. 

The crowd cheered again. She stood with them.

“The Seekers! I see them!” Ron pointed to a spot on the north end of the pitch.

“Come on, Ginny! You can do it!” Harry shouted.

“Go, Ginny!” she called. 

They flew out of sight once again, causing the audience to retake their seats.

No, it seemed like the only thing she could really do was continue with the status quo. Draco had to trust her and she had to keep an eye on him. Soon, she would figure out a way to completely erase all the remnants of wizardry from his mind. And once she did, their little … relationship … would just have to end. He would be healthy and stable, and wholly capable of continuing life as a Muggle without her. And she … well, she would just go back to her day job.

This scenario made the most sense. 

But thinking about it also made Hermione feel like there was a cold, hollow spot right in the middle of her chest. 

“There they are!” Harry pointed. They all stood again.

“Get it, Ginny! Get it!”

“Hooray!”

And then, the stadium was filled with cheers. 

“That’s it, folks!” The announcer shouted. “Holyhead Harpies’ Seeker Ginny Weasley has captured the Golden Snitch! The final score is Harpies 470, Magpies 450!”

Harry and Ron traded high fives. Molly and Arthur embraced. George and Angelina kissed. Bill and Fleur were practically snogging. Hermione pasted on a smile and clapped. 

\---------------------------

Hermione barely recognized the Hideout with so many people in it. It was positively swarming with Weasleys and Harpies, most of whom were well on their way to getting quite sloshed. Ron in particular was downing firewhiskey as if it were water.

“Oi, Herrrrmione!” he called. “There’s someone I wan’ ya to meet.” He had his arm around a tall man with brown hair and a stubby chin. “’Herminny, this is Calell. Dacell. Dadell. Oi, mate, I’m sorry, I can’t quite pronunciate it at the moment.”

“Cadell. Cadell Llewellyn.” He offered his hand to Hermione. She shook it politely.

“You must be Geri’s brother.”

“That I am.”

“Brilliant,” Ron said. “I’m gonna go and find yer susster, Caddy. Anyone call you Caddy? Or Delly?”

“No.”

“Bloody, bloody, bloody shame,” Ron said. He slapped Cadell on the back and ambled off.

“So,” he mused. “It seems that Ron would like us to talk.”

“Yes, it does indeed seem that way.”

“Well then. Here we are. Talking.”

“Yes. Yes we are.”

They sipped their drinks uncomfortably.

“So your name is ... Herminny?”

“Hermione.”

“Ah.”

“Yes.” 

“Brilliant match, eh?”

“Absolutely. A nail-biter up to the very end.”

“Mmm.”

“Right.”

More conscientious drink-sipping.

“Actually, I have to confess something,” he said, bending closer. Hermione noticed that the Llewellyn chin looked much better on him. “I actually kind of hate Quidditch.”

“Really?”

He nodded solemnly. “I just go for Geri. But I wear these glasses during the game.” He handed Hermione a pair of innocuous-looking spectacles. “Go on, look through them.”

When Hermione put them on, instead of seeing the crowded bar, she was instead looking at the pages of a book. 

“How do you … how do you turn the page?” she asked, voice full of awe.

“Clear your throat.”

Hermione obliged. The page turned. “Fantastic. Did you make these yourself?”

“I did. I could rig you a pair if you’d like.”

Reluctantly, she handed them back. “I’d better not. Sometimes I have a hard enough time pretending to be interested in the game as it is.”

Cadell laughed and slipped the glasses back in his front pocket. “Which one are you related to?”

“None of them. Ginny Weasley and I went to school together a few years back.” 

“Hogwarts?”

“That’s the one.”

Cadell uttered a low whistle. “Mighty jealous. Mum homeschooled the lot of us, so I never got to go.” 

“Well you’ve obviously learned quite a bit if you were able to make those specs.”

“Ah, it’s nothing,” he said, dismissing her admiration with a wave of his hands. “So what do you do?”

“I work for the Ministry. You?”

“Owl Post. Not very exciting, but I’m kind of just biding my time until I can save enough to open a bookshop.”

Hermione narrowed her eyes and searched the room. Cadell attempted to follow her gaze.

“Lose something?” he asked. 

“Did Ron send you over here so you could both have a laugh at me?” she asked.

“What are you going on about?” 

“Oh, nothing,” she muttered. “Sorry. I’m just a bit of a bibliophile myself, and Ron’s made fun of me for it since we were eleven.”

Cadell gave her a bright smile. “Oh?”

He looked so earnest that Hermione had to smile back. “Yes. So what is that book in your specs?”

“It’s a book on metaphysical transfiguration.”

“The one by Selwyn Sussman?”

“No, this is the Weintraub. But it does refer extensively to Sussman’s theories.”

Hermione put her drink down. “Hmm. I haven’t gotten to that one yet. Does Weintraub ever address Sussman’s problem of distinguishing concupiscence from …” But before she could finish her sentence, Ron returned, even less in control of his faculties than he had been before.

“Mermione! Calell! I knew you two would get along famoushly. This is jus’ great. You two need refills on those drinks.”

“I’m fine, Ron. Where is Geri?”

“Geri has pretty hair. I’ve alwaysh said that, haven’t I, Mermione?”

“Ron, maybe you should go find yourself a SoberUp Potion.”

“Naaaaaaaaaaaaaaaah.” 

“Your breath is seriously flammable,” she said.

Cadell laughed heartily. 

“Mermione, you are one sharp, sharp, sharp lady. You know that? But wassh out, Calell. She will break your heart into a billion bajillion mamillion piecessh.” He gave Hermione what he probably assumed was a look of deep sadness. In reality, it actually just looked like he was about to fall over. Which he then promptly did. 

Cadell helped Ron to his feet. “Maybe we shouldn’t tell my sister about this,” he said.

Luckily, Bill Weasley was only a few feet away. Hermione got his attention and Cadell handed Ron to him.

“Oh Ronnykins,” Bill said with a chuckle. “I’m going to take as many pictures of you as I possibly can before sobering you up, you understand that, don’t you?”

“Your hair is mush unprettier, Dad,” Ron replied.

“He thinks I’m _Dad_? Oh, you’ll pay for that, Ron. Now I’m going to get George to help me think of something fun to do with you. See you two later,” Bill said, dragging Ron away from them.

“He’s not usually like that,” Hermione said. 

“Oh, I know. I’ve met him plenty during less … festive occasions.”

“Oh.” Ron has met Geri’s family? He’s met them “plenty”? Things must be going well.

“So look, I’d love to talk to you a little more about Selwyn’s theories. Do you want to go somewhere a little quieter? I think there’s a less crowded bar down the road.”

Hermione sighed and looked at her watch. It was nearly one in the morning. “I’m sorry, Cadell, I really have to go. I have work tomorrow.”

“Of course. Could I, um, send you an owl sometime?”

Hermione smiled. “Sure. I’d like that.” She stood up, grabbed her bag, and offered Cadell her hand. “It was nice to meet you.”

“Likewise,” he said, shaking her hand warmly. 

As Hermione left the bar, she cursed herself for staying so late. She had planned on having one drink and being home by eleven o’clock, midnight at the latest. This way she’d have time to look through a few more sources before heading to bed. Now it looked like she’d only have time to get through a couple of chapters if she wanted to get a decent night’s sleep. She heaved a sigh and headed home.


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ron drops by and Draco writes in his log.

**Saturday**

Hermione had found one other book that made mention of Florizell Askew. The final chapter of Yuki Nobunaka’s _Where Are they Now?: Witches and Wizards Who Seem to Have Dropped off the Face of the Earth, Vol CXXIV_ featured a short update on her. Nobunaka noted: "Ms. Askew repeatedly declined to be interviewed for this book. But I can tell you that she lives a lonely, but pleasant life amongst her sheep. There is a charming little shop only a few kilometers down the road from Askew’s house owned by a Muggle named William Spenser. He speaks fondly of Askew, saying that her sheep make wool so soft you’d swear it was cashmere. He seems to know nothing of her previous life."

And that was it for Florizell Askew. If only, Hermione mused, Askew had agreed to talk to Nobunaka. Maybe she could have imparted further wisdom that might help Hermione solve her current problems. 

Hermione scribbled a few more notes and glanced at the clock. She had about an hour before she had to meet Draco. Her stomach did a quick somersault, but she calmed it with a brief lecture: “No way. No _way_. Last weekend was ill-advised and reckless. This will just be watching a play and going home. That’s it. And no, you are not packing a spare pair of knickers,” she said, stuffing a spare pair of knickers into her bag, “because you will _not_ be needing them. Dammit, Hermione.” She contemplated removing them from the bag, but then decided that they didn’t take up all that much space, so it really didn’t make much of a difference whether she brought them or not. 

That was stupid logic, but she let it slide. Stupid logic also allowed her to put on her favorite white cap-sleeved blouse and her favorite fawn-colored knee-length skirt, and to take some extra time on her hair, smoothing it into soft waves that she pulled into a knot at the nape of her neck. 

Just as she was about to grab her jacket and apparate out, a loud knock sounded at her door. 

“I’m coming, I’m coming,” she called. Who the heck could that be? She glanced out the spyhole. Oh _Merlin_. She opened it. “Hey Ron.” 

“Hi Herm…” he broke off, looking her up and down. “…ione. You look really nice.”

“Thanks, Ron. What’s up?”

“I, uh … I just wanted to know if you wanted to get some coffee or something. But it looks like you have other plans.”

“Yes. But … uhm … thanks for asking.” She shifted her weight from one foot to the other. 

“Right … well.”

“Yes, uhm. Do you, uh, want to come in for a minute?”

He stepped inside. “Thanks. So, uh, look. I just wanted to apologize for Thursday. I don’t quite remember what I said, but Geri’s told me that I should prolly apologize to everybody I talked to. ”

Hermione laughed. “That girl has sense.”

“Yeah.” He scratched behind his ear. “So do you, er, incidentally, remember what it was that I said?”

“It wasn’t anything terrible,” she said. “You just told Cadell that I was a heartbreaker.”

Ron’s face began to turn a wild scarlet. “Blimey. I’m sorry.”

“It’s really no problem. Your face is clashing with your hair, you know.”

He exhaled mightily and wiped his palms on his jeans. “That’s not nearly as bad as what I told Fleur.”

“What was that?”

“Ugg, I’d rather not say.” He looked slightly nauseous. 

“I’d pity you, but no one poured the booze down your throat, Ron.”

“I know, I know. So … changing the subject a bit, uhm, you look nice.”

“You already said that, Ron,” she said with a smirk, “but thank you.”

“Where are you off to, then?” His eyes grew wide and a grin spread over his lips. “Are you going to meet Cadell? Brilliant! I knew you two would get along.”

She sighed. “No, I’m not going to meet Cadell. But yes, he was very nice, and thank you for introducing us.”

“You’re not?”

“No.” _Please stop asking questions_ , she thought silently. “How’s Geri?”

“Good. Just … you know, it’s kind of rough. She’s on the road all the time.” 

“I know. Harry’s got the same complaints about Ginny.”

“Yeah. I bet.” Ron sat awkwardly on the arm of her sofa. 

“Ron? I’m sorry that I’m on my way out. If I weren’t, I really would like to have coffee with you.”

“It’s alright.”

“No, I mean it. I miss you.”

“You do?”

“Of course I do.”

“I miss you too.” He swept her into a quick hug. “I’m sorry if things are weird when Geri is around.”

“Look, don’t worry about it. I just want you to be happy.”

“I know. I, uh, want the same for you. Really.”

“Thanks, Ron.” She moved towards the door, hoping he’d take the hint. “Maybe we could get dinner during the week instead of coffee? Maybe on Wednesday?”

“That sounds good.” He looked no closer to leaving. “So … who’s the lucky guy?”

“Uhm,” Hermione said, tugging at her earlobe, “It’s really no one you know.” This was technically true. Ron didn’t know Drake Malford. 

“Where did you meet him?”

“At work.”

“He works at the Ministry?”

“Not exactly. Look, Ron, I’m sorry, but I’m going to be late.”

“Yeah, I know.” He moved towards the door. _Finally_ , she thought. 

“Hermione?”

“Yes?”

“Why won’t you tell me his name?”

“Because I … because it isn’t important.”

“I guess it isn’t.” His eyes were ice. _Did he know?_ No. How could he?

“I’ll see you soon, Ron. Thanks for stopping by.”

“Sure.”

She smiled at him as he walked through the door, but he didn’t give much of a smile in return. There was no way that he could know whom she was going to meet, she reasoned. He was probably just mad because she was keeping a secret from him.

All the same, Hermione was unsettled. She couldn’t imagine telling Ron—or anyone else, for that matter—that she was about to go on what might indeed be termed a date with Draco. 

\---------------------  
**Log for Monday**

For the record, I think doing this is silly. I just wanted to make that abundantly clear.

Work was somewhat unbearable for most of the morning. Even though I usually get to the office before everyone else, today I got there fifteen minutes late. In the space of those fifteen minutes, Clem spread the word that I had a girlfriend. I had to put up with moronic questions until lunchtime, when Tad the Insufferable Wanker accidentally put his mum on speakerphone just when she was asking him if he liked the lunch she’d packed. That got everyone off of my back. 

I suppose what you’d really like to know is why I was late. While eating breakfast, I got some jam on my tie. Instead of just changing my tie like a normal human being, I tapped it with my butterknife and muttered some nonsense words for a little while. When I realized what I was doing, I got up, changed my tie like a normal human being, and went to work. The rest of the day was fairly uneventful. I had my run, I ate my dinner, I read my book. The end. 

 

**Log for Tuesday**

I had a new type of dream last night. If you want me to be completely honest, this is a fifth type of dream, and not a fourth. In addition to the flying dream, the office dream, and the tower dream, I also often have some rather interesting dreams about you. I haven’t told you about them for obvious reasons. Rest assured that they, and not the flying dream, are actually my favorite. At any rate, this new type of dream made very little sense. In it, I was on a train with that black-haired fellow I saw in the bar a while back. I can’t recall where we were going, or any other details of that sort, but I knew one thing: I utterly loathed that black-haired fellow, and when he smiled at me, it made me so angry I could barely stand it. 

I was very careful with my jam this morning at breakfast. As I was eating, however, an odd thought came to my mind: Of course the butterknife didn’t work, you bloody idiot. It’s made of metal. This made perfect sense for all of about thirty seconds, and then I couldn’t remember why it had made sense. But then I recalled that I had a small stash of twigs I’d been collecting for some reason. I had originally surmised that the idea about the metal knife was just some sort of way to justify my twig collection, but now that I think about it, I don’t see how the two are related. 

Work was not interesting. 

On my run this evening, I saw this old tree stump that I’m sure I pass every night without issue. Tonight, for whatever reason, I was a bit wary of it, and thought to myself “goddamn snargaluffs.” No idea what this means.

**Log for Wednesday**

Today at work I had to fax a document to another branch of our office. Instead of just asking Fiona to do it, or walking over and using the bloody fax machine, I rolled the paper up and secured it with a rubber band. Tad the Insufferable Wanker says to me, “Oi, Malford, what the hell are you doing?” I say nothing in return, but open the window and look out. Tad says, “What are you looking for? A passenger pigeon?” I am about to say, “Not a pigeon, you moron, an owl,” but something makes me stop. Instead, I give him my best approximation of a laugh, and say, “Just seeing if you’re paying attention.” Tad says “You are one crazy git.” I try very hard to ignore him. Tad looks like he’s going to get the entire office’s attention to let them know what a crazy git I indeed am, but I give him the Drake Malford Gaze of Doom and he goes back to his desk and shuts up.

That afternoon Rick tells everyone that he still has five pairs of tickets to Twelfth Night. No one is interested in them. This pleases me.

On my run this evening I consciously avoided the path that goes past the tree stump.

**Log for Thursday**

Tower dream again last night. Bad. The snake/man was there. I feel like I’m getting closer to seeing my parents’ faces. I can feel their faces. I am frightened of my father, I think. Dream Me is very intimidated by Dream Him. The old man with the white beard is not afraid of me. He never is. I am quite convinced now that the weapon in my hands is a stick. I wonder if this ties in with my collection of twigs? Probably. What is my subconscious trying to tell me on this one? That in my past life, I used sticks as weapons? How does that make any sense at all? Maybe I whittled them into very sharp points and threw them at people. Sure. Why not? Left forearm positively burning when I woke up. Had to submerge my arm in ice water. The pain is obviously in my head; there is no physical trauma to my arm. Briefly considered cutting it a bit to see if I could tell the difference between psychosomatic pain and actual pain. Rejected this idea because I didn’t want to be late to work again.

Morning at work was uneventful. Weather at lunch was nice, so I took a walk through the park. The duck pond reminds me of you.

This afternoon at work Clem and Fiona decided to decorate the office for Halloween: paper witches, pumpkins, werewolves, spiders, cats, etc. They make me uncomfortable, but I don’t know why. I had to move my chair so that they weren’t staring at me. I don’t think anyone noticed.

T.I.W. asked if I were bringing the mystery woman to the play. I attempted to ignore him, but he was a persistent little wanker, so I finally responded: “Is she that much of a mystery if Clem’s entire family has met her?” I suppose T.I.W. didn’t like my tone, because he said, “Oi, Malford, why don’t you throw another fax out the window?” So I replied: “Oi, Wanker, why don’t you eat the sandwich your mother packed for you?”

Nothing special about my run that night. 

**Log for Friday**

Flying dream last night. I’m definitely playing some sort of game. Oddly enough, the black-haired man from the bar was in it too. He was on a different team. I still don’t know what we are riding on. Black-Hair and I were both chasing something. Dream-Me was almost as interested in knocking Black-Hair off his mount as he was in chasing the object.

At work, I had to make a concerted effort not to look at the Halloween decorations. I find that the pumpkin and the witch are the worst. I am probably sensitive to the pumpkin because of the Pumpkin Juice Incident. I do not know what it is about the witch. She is a rather typical-looking witch: green skin, hooked nose, pointy hat, black dress, flying on a broom, etc. But something about her positively makes my skin crawl. I try to not pay attention, but I find myself staring sometimes. T.I.W. noticed. He said “Oi, Malford, [can he begin a goddamn sentence any other way?] do you fancy her?” I did not reply.

It was pouring this afternoon but I had to get out of the office. The park was a muddy mess. I had to stop at my flat to change before heading back to work. But the thought of going back in there almost made me physically ill. I thought about calling Rick and telling him I’d eaten something bad, but then I realized I might see him tomorrow at the play. So I put on dry clothes, got a rain slicker, and went back to the office. I spent most of the afternoon in a meeting, which was good, because the conference room does not have decorations in it. 

I skipped the run tonight. Usually I’ll run in the rain, but it’s a bit much even for me right now. I suppose I’ll have to get a treadmill or a gym membership soon. Running keeps my mind blank. 

**Log for Saturday**

Train dream again. This is becoming one of the Not Good Dreams. Not as bad as the tower, but I don’t enjoy it. This time, I knew I had some friends who were standing behind me, but just as with my parents in the tower dream, I’d turn and they’d disappear. You were in this dream. You were sitting in a compartment with Black-Hair and someone else I also couldn’t really see. You were giving me this look of absolute loathing. Dream-Me thought it was funny, but Waking-Me does not. Not at all. Also, we were all wearing what appear to be ornate graduation robes in this dream. Waking-Me thinks that this is funny.

I looked at my twig collection this morning. I’m up to six of them. I remember picking up three of the six. 

You are going to be here in two hours. I am going to go for a run. If nothing else appears in this log, you can assume it was uneventful. 

Ok, you can still assume that the run itself was uneventful, but I did just have a new thought about the small cabinet that I use as a nightstand. I am calling it a “new thought” because I’m not really sure if it’s a “confusing or troubling” thought, as you term them, because sometimes it takes me a while to decide whether or not a normal person might think this, so I’ll just write it down as I’m working it out: is it possible that this cabinet is connected to another cabinet? I don’t actually keep anything in this large compartment of cabinet right now, because I have no use for it. I put things in the small drawer at the top of the cabinet, but that doesn’t count. If I put something, like my tennis shoes or a book, in the large compartment, would it appear somewhere else? Ok, now that I am writing this, I realize that it does sound very stupid. So there you have it. Another confusing or troubling moment from the fucked-up mind of Drake Malford. Bloody. Fucking. Hell. 

You will be here in fifteen minutes.


	15. Chapter 15

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Draco and Hermione go see a play.

**Saturday**

He put down his pen and tore the six sheets of paper from the white legal pad. Then he put the pages in an envelope, labeled the envelope “For Sunday,” sealed it, and put it next to the television.

Ice cascaded into his stomach with each breath. When he took a sip of water, his mouth dried out again immediately. This must have been what he felt like as a teenager. This was, of course, better. For one thing, he didn’t have to worry about getting Granger home to her parents on time. More importantly, he didn’t have to worry about blushing like a fool when buying a pack of rubbers at the convenience store. 

His encounter with Granger last week had certainly proven something to him: he _must_ have been somewhat experienced with women in his past life. He hadn’t felt the least bit self-conscious or perplexed when it came to pleasuring her; he simply read her body language and adjusted his approach accordingly. That sort of confidence could only come from practice. 

She was at his door exactly one minute early. 

Hello, Ms. Granger,” he said. 

“Hello, Mr. Malford.”

She walked into his flat and set her bag on the floor. 

“I’d offer to take your coat, but I suppose we should be going.”

“Yes.”

They smiled strangely at each other. 

“Let me just get the tickets. They’re in the kitchen.”

“Of course.” 

He licked his lips. He didn’t even turn towards the kitchen.

“I’m having a bit of a dilemma here.”

“Oh?” She arched her eyebrow a bit. 

“Yes. You see, on the one hand, I’d really like to go to that play with you, but on the other, I’d really like to lock us in here and not leave for several weeks. Months even.”

“That sounds rather impractical.” She attempted to look stern, but the corner of her mouth curled into a smile. 

“Perhaps.”

She took a step closer to him. She smelled like apples. “Where are the tickets?”

“Kitchen table.” He regretted telling her, because she used this information to break the enchantment between them, walking into the kitchen and retrieving the tickets. 

When she returned, she put the tickets into her bag and smiled broadly at him. “Shall we?”

“I suppose you mean go to the play, not lock ourselves in here?”

“I do.”

“If we must,” he sighed. 

As they walked down the block towards the theater, she took his hand in hers. Even that small touch sent heat through his body. 

“So how was your week?” she asked.

“You get to read all about it on Sunday.”

“That bad, eh?”

“How was yours?”

“Busy.” 

“So how many other, er, clients do you have?” 

“A half dozen or so.” She was looking straight ahead.

“And how do they stack up against me?”

“In terms of what? Baking skills? You win. No contest.” 

“That’s not what I meant.”

She stopped walking. “Are you insinuating,” she said, pulling her hand from his, “that I snog with all of my other clients?”

“No.” Actually, that idea had never even occurred to him.

“Because I’m not sure you actually realize how wrong this is for me to be doing, and yet, here I am, doing it.” Her eyes flashed darkly. 

“What I was actually asking,” he said, voice with more edge than he had intended, “was whether I was the craziest bastard you’ve got.”

“Oh.” They resumed walking. “For your _information_ , that question is also inappropriate. I can’t discuss my other cases with you.” 

“My apologies.”

They walked in silence for a while. When she took his hand once again, he decided it was safe to begin asking questions again. He started with: “So where do you live?”

“Outside of London.” Her palm started to sweat.

“Where outside of London?”

“South of London.”

“Is there a reason you’re being so maddeningly vague?”

“What do you want? An exact address?”

“Why not?”

“Because.”

“How is that an answer?”

“It is an answer by virtue of its being what I have said in reply to your question.” She took her hand back. 

“What is your problem, Granger?”

“My problem,” she said, walking faster, “is that what happened last Saturday was incredibly unprofessional of me. What is happening right _now_ is incredibly unprofessional of me. I’m basically doing the exact opposite of what I should be doing when I’m with you. And yet here I am, doing it.” 

She stopped walking again. She balled her fists and perched them on her hips. 

“Well why are you here then? If it’s such a terrible idea?” 

“Because I want to be here. Because I like spending time with you. Because, God help me, I like _you_ , Drake Malford. And for some bizarre reason, I have decided that being with you is more important than doing what 99.9% of my brain says is the right thing to do. So you will excuse me if I am occasionally reticent with certain details about my personal life.” She was shouting, but there were tears standing in her eyes. 

He swallowed dryly and willed himself to come up with a scathing retort. Nothing. She was poised, foot tapping, eyes blazing at him. Still nothing. “Alright then,” was all he managed. She blinked, sniffled a bit, and then resumed walking.

“You look very beautiful this afternoon.”

“Thank you.” She returned her hand to his. 

They finished the walk in silence. 

When they got to their seats, he scanned the crowd quickly, hoping against hope that no one from his office would actually show up. So far, so good.

As the house lights dimmed and the actor playing Orsino took the stage, she leaned her shoulder against his. He could smell her shampoo and feel her body’s slight shifts as she breathed. 

Soon, however, the play caught his attention. The actors were far better than he had ever imagined they would be, considering the size and location of the venue. Even the gulling of Malvolio was pitch-perfect: funny, but with just enough cruelty for the audience to pity him. Well, perhaps not _this_ audience, he mused to himself. This lot of Philistines hadn’t even laughed when Sir Andrew addressed Maria as “Good Mistress Accost.” Hermione had laughed, of course. And when he stole a glance at her during Viola’s “A blank, my Lord” speech, he caught her silently mouthing the lines along with the actress. He had watched her lips instead of the stage, transfixed by the way they soundlessly shaped the words. Something sharp lodged itself in his throat, but he swallowed it down into his stomach.

When Feste had finished his last song and the lights rose again, they stood and applauded. He turned to ask her how she had enjoyed it, but she had tears running down her cheeks. 

“It’s a comedy, Granger,” he said, unable to keep the mocking tone from his voice. 

“I know.” She dabbed at her eyes with a tissue.

When they left the theater, he suggested that they walk through the park. It was still relatively mild for October, so she agreed. They didn’t say another word until they got to the bench and sat down.

“Thanks for taking me, Drake. It was beautiful.”

“You’re welcome. Did you enjoy it?”

“Of course,” she was almost aghast at the question.

“Good.”

They watched the water ripple in the slight breeze. There were no ducks this time of the year.

“Do you think,” she said slowly, “that Orsino knew all along that Viola was really Cesario?”

“Not a chance. I don’t think he was particularly bright. Never quite got what Viola saw in him, to be honest.”

“At the end, then, why did he call her ‘Cesario’? Why didn’t he want her to change into women’s clothes?”

He started to offer an idea about Orsino’s latent homosexual desires, but instead said “I think he just wanted her to be the person he knew.”

“Not the person she was?”

“Maybe they’re the same.” The wind scattered dead, brown leaves across their feet.

“So the clothes and the fake history didn’t actually change anything about her?”

“Maybe not,” he said quietly.

“So you’re saying that he loves the person she is, not the person she pretends to be?”

“I’m saying that those two people might not actually be any different.” 

She looked out over the pond and then up at the bare branches that were quickly growing blacker as night gathered. “Drake? There’s something I have to tell you.”

“What’s that?” His heart began to beat faster. Blood rang in his ears.

“I … you … I …” tears began to gather in her eyes again.

“What is it?”

“You’re …” She looked down, began to smooth out imaginary wrinkles in her skirt. 

“ _What_?” He turned her chin so that she had to face him. 

“I’m … I’m .... so sorry.”

“You’re sorry? You’re sorry for what? Make some sense, Granger.”

“I’m sorry that … I’m sorry that I’ve made such bad professional decisions.”

“Are you bloody apologizing for last weekend?”

“Not just that.”

“Granger … you’re definitely not following the social worker code of ethics. I get that. And your job is important to you. I get that too. But look, I’m obviously not you’re your typical client.”

“But that’s not your fault. And it’s …”

“No,” he interrupted. “Let me finish. When you first started coming to me, I utterly loathed the idea that I needed to be visited by a bloody social worker. Your visits screwed up my routine. I didn’t know what to say to you. I didn’t want you in my flat. I didn’t want you in my life. Because you _knew_. You were the only person who knew what a fucking ridiculous situation I was in. I could pretend with everyone else. I could get away with not talking, with not telling anyone anything important. But not with you. And that made me profoundly uncomfortable … but in so many ways, it was a huge relief, because you were the one person I didn’t have to pretend with. It got to the point where I started actually enjoying our visits, even if you thought I was acting like an arsehole. And look, Granger, if you were 40 years older than me or some hairy fellow named Herman, maybe last weekend wouldn’t have happened, but as it is, you are absolutely lovely, and I’d been thinking of kissing you since that day you got caught in the rain. So don’t ever apologize about that again. Ever. Because you have helped me more than you know.” 

“What if,” she said, swiping at her eyes with her sleeves, “I were indeed a fellow named Herman, but I wasn’t particularly hairy?”

“I suppose it would depend on how nicely you filled out your suit.”

She laughed and leaned against him. He circled her with his arms and pulled her closer.

“We should probably get out of here. It’s getting dark.”

“Would you happen to have a gourmet repast prepared in your flat?”

“Not this time. But the tub of frosting is still there.”

“Mmm. But what will _you_ eat?” 

“I suppose that remains to be seen.”

“I can share the frosting. Or we can go and get a bite somewhere. Or I can make you my famous tofu marsala.”

“You know, I really enjoy that little curry house down the block that we visited once.”

“Fine. But one day, you _will_ taste my tofu marsala. And it will blow your mind.”

“Is that a threat?” 

“Prat.” She punched his arm. He captured her fist in his hand and kissed it. “Shall we?” She took his arm and they began to walk out of the park. 

“Do you remember,” he began, “when I told you that I felt like I didn’t belong here.”

She stiffened slightly. “Yes.”

“I still feel that way. Every day. Except when I’m with you.”

“Drake …”

“It’s true.” 

“That’s probably just because you’re honest with me, Drake. Everyone else you meet only knows a fraction of you.”

“Granger, _I_ only know a fraction of me.”

“Well,” she said, “your fraction is bigger.”

“That’s highly comforting.”

“I tried.”

“I’m going to spoil something you will read about on Sunday.”

“Alright.” Her voice was calm, but he felt her body stiffen slightly. Why was he volunteering this sort of information now? Why was he intent on making her think that he was even more of a lunatic than she already did? Was it because he wanted to see what she would do? Was it because he thought she could help him? Or was it just because he wanted her to know who he was--whoever that person might be? Because it was not just about being lonely; it was that he had no past selves to provide context for his current experiences. This wasn’t merely confusing or troubling; it was maddening. 

“I’m having a new dream.”

“Oh?”

“Yes. I’m on a train. You, me, and the man with black hair that I saw at Sparky’s.”

“Where is the train going?”

“To school, of course,” he said quickly, his voice a bit impatient. “Oh … wait … did I just say ‘school’?”

“You did.” She stiffened slightly.

“Hmm. That’s odd. I never know where I’m going in the dream. Ah, it must be the robes.”

“The robes?”

“Yes. I’m wearing some sort of graduation robe in the dream. We all are. That must be why I assume it has something to do with school.”

“Of course.”

“Do you think these dreams are memories in some way?”

“What do you mean?” 

“You know,” he said, opening the door of the curry house, “of my past life. That they are memories that bubble to the surface of my subconscious when I’m sleeping?”

“Well,” she began, “that wouldn’t make sense if I were in the dreams, would it?” The waitress smiled at them and gestured for them to sit at a nearby table. They thanked her as she handed them a pair of paper menus.

“Yes, that’s what I’ve been thinking. But maybe my subconscious is just inserting you into them? You and the black-haired man? The two of you are really the only people whose faces I can clearly see. I mean, I get a general sense of the man on the tower—the one with the long beard … him and the … other one … but in terms of actually being able to see people, it’s just you and Black Hair.”

“That’s interesting.” She was engrossed in her menu.

“Yes. But now that I think of it, you know the work dream? The one with the ancient runes on the computer screen?”

She looked up from her menu sharply. He recognized that look; it meant that he had said something she would regard as “confusing or troubling.” “What did I say?” 

“Nothing.”

“Tell me, dammit.”

“Ancient runes?”

“Yes?” He blinked at her. “Isn’t that what they are?”

“You’ve never called them that before.”

He hadn’t? That seemed silly. That was obviously what they were. “Well, at any rate, sometimes Rick or Clem or Tad the Insufferable Wanker is in that dream. So that dream can’t really be a memory.”

The waitress returned and they placed their orders. Hermione began to fiddle with her paper napkin. “What makes you think the other dreams are memories?”

“I don’t know. It’s just a feeling.” He began to fiddle with a napkin too, folding it in halves and triangles, trying his best to recreate the roses she had made in his kitchen last week. “Aha!” He handed her what he’d made. It vaguely resembled a cross between a decapitated swan and a paper airplane.

“What is this?”

“A napkin rose.”

“Oh?”

“You can’t tell?” He feigned dismay, resting his chin in his hand.

“Uhm. No. Well …” she turned it upside down, then ninety degrees to the left. “No.”

“That’s the last time I give _you_ flowers.”

She nodded in mock seriousness and tucked the napkin into her bag. “I guess I should save this, then.”

“Very prudent of you. Anyhow, here is what I wanted to tell you: in that train dream, you absolutely loathe me.”

“Is that so?” 

“It is. You look like you want to punch me in the mouth.”

“Interesting.”

“And you know what else? My hair is all slicked back in the dream. Just like you said it would be.”

A ghost of a smile flicked across her lips. “I guess your subconscious is very open to the power of suggestion.”

“Well if that’s the case, maybe you can tell me what my friends looked like? I’d like for them to have faces.”

“Your friends?” Her brow furrowed slightly.

“Yes. They stand behind me on the train.”

The smile left her lips. “I don’t know what they look like.”

“Come on,” he said playfully. “Just make something up. Tell me one is tall and one is short. Tell me they’re both grotesquely sweaty. Tell me they look like lizards or that they’ve got a mouth full of gold teeth or that they’re wearing shoes on their hands.”

Their food arrived. He dug in hungrily. She pushed her chana masala around on the plate a bit.

“Better yet,” he continued, “tell me one is Rihanna and the other is Selma Hayek.”

This got a laugh out of her. “Alright. Fine. One of them is Rihanna and the other is Selma Hayek. Sweet dreams.” She began to eat.

“Much obliged. Say, do you think crab is okay?”

She put her fork down slowly, dabbed at her lips with a napkin, and gave him a look that seemed to bore straight into his brain. “What did you say?” 

“Crab. To eat. I know you’re a vegetarian, but do you eat fish? Because I make excellent crabcakes.” 

“Oh. Um. No. No, I don’t eat fish either.” 

He put his half-eaten piece of naan back on the plate. “Why was that weird for me to ask?”

“It just seemed … out of context.”

He tried to replay the conversation in his head, but he kept losing the thread. “We … we weren’t talking about crab?”

“No.” Her voice was low and stern.

“Huh.” He picked up his naan again and began to eat. “You know, Granger, I’ve said far stranger things. Don’t know why that one shook you.”

“Me either.” She attempted a smile and returned to her dinner. 

\--------------------------  
She was quiet on the way back to his flat. He, on the other hand, was in a rather good mood. After all, she was headed back to his flat with him. She hadn’t even attempted to offer a weak excuse as to why she should really head home. 

“Do you think Malvolio ends up taking revenge?”

She hadn’t said anything in so long that he was taken aback by her question. “What?” 

“At the end of _Twelfth Night_ , his last words are a promise to be revenged on the whole lot of them because they all played such cruel trick on him. So do you think he actually does come back for revenge?”

“Well,” he said, opening the door to his flat, “Shakespeare obviously wanted us to be in suspense. That’s why he didn’t write _Thirteenth Night_.”

“It’s not quite a happy ending then, is it?”

“Sure it is. Everyone but Malvolio is happy.”

“But he could come back and …”

“And what? Kill them all? Not bloody likely. He’s a buffoon. Anyway, why does the nebulous possibility that something bad might sometime in the future make it an unhappy ending? If you think that way, then no story has a happy ending, because every character could get run over by a bus as soon as the last page is turned. You want some tea?”

“Yes, thank you.” She followed him into the kitchen. “Anyway, even without Malvolio’s final words, how happy is the ending, if you think about it?”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, Orsino has married someone who’s been lying to him the entire time.”

“When he agrees to marry her, he knows that she was lying. And he loves her anyway.”

“So you think they end up happy?”

“Except for the dreadful bus accident that occurred on Thirteenth Night.” The kettle whistled. He filled both of their cups. “What’s the matter, Granger?”

“Hmm?”

“The matter. With you. You know, if this is how you react to _Twelfth Night_ , remind me never to take you to a production of _King Lear_.”

She stared forlornly at her tea.

“That was a joke.”

“I know. I’m sorry, Drake.”

“What is it?”

“Nothing.” She stirred sugar into her tea. “I’m just … kind of stressed about work.”

“Do you regret this, Granger?”

The stirring became slightly frenzied. Tea spilled over the sides of the mug. “Regret what?” 

“This. Me. Last weekend. Is that it?” 

“No. That’s not it at all,” she said, mopping up the spilled tea with a napkin. 

“What if you lost your job? Would you regret it then?”

“No.” She seemed surprised at how quickly the answer came. She locked eyes with him. “Drake. I didn’t expect this to happen.”

“But it did.” 

“Yes it did.” She took a sip of tea. 

He couldn’t read her expression. Her eyes were hard, her lips set. Was she saying she was glad it happened? That she didn’t want it to happen again? “Look, Granger, can you just please spit out whatever you’re going to say? This is driving me even more insane than I already am.”

She didn’t actually say anything. Instead, she clutched his shirt in her hands and drew his face close to hers. Her lips were warm and tasted like tea. She pulled him against her, leaning back against the kitchen counter. He pressed his body into hers, dug his fingers into her hair. Her hands were already up his shirt, already desperately trying to tug it over his head. Suddenly, the fact that she had not answered his question mattered very little. Her hands roamed over his body, frantically caressing his chest, back, and stomach. 

As his shirt hit the floor, a low groan echoed in her throat. The sound seemed to make all of the blood in his body instantly pool in his groin. Her shirt soon joined his, and he began to suck wildly at the sensitive spot on her neck. She sighed, let her head fall back, fluttered her fingers through his hair. He kissed down her neck, across her shoulders, nudging her bra straps aside with his thumbs. She wrapped a leg around his waist, thrusting her heat against his erection. He ran one of his hands up her calf, her thigh, to the sides of her knickers. 

She took one of his hands in hers and pushed them away from the counter. Her eyes were sharp, hot; her face and throat was flushed rosy pink. She led him by the hand out of the kitchen. He assumed she was going to pull him down on the couch, but she kept walking, intent, it seemed, on getting them into the bedroom. She stopped just outside the doorway and began to undo his belt. 

“Granger?”

“I don’t want to talk now.” Her voice was low and husky. She unclasped her bra. He obliged her wishes, instead using his mouth to engulf one of her stiffened nipples. She moaned, still fumbling with his belt. He unbuckled it for her and stepped out of his jeans as she shimmied her skirt down over her hips. Her hips, God, her hips. He loved how round they were, how they sloped and crested beneath his hands. He knelt in front of her, grazing her skin with his teeth, tugging at the sides of her knickers until she practically ripped them off her body for him. She entangled her hands in his hair and began to drag them both toward the bed. When her legs touched the mattress, she collapsed backwards. He slid her knickers over her knees and growled softly, a guttural testimony to how delicious she looked was just then, sprawled out before him. 

But before he could begin to pleasure her, she sat up. 

“What is it? You don’t … you don’t want me to?” 

“I do. But more.”

“More?”

“Yes.” Her lips were red and swollen. A purplish love-bite was blossoming on her neck. Her hair had freed itself from its bun, spilling in soft waves around her shoulders. A thin layer of sweat glistened over her body. 

“You are so fucking beautiful, Granger.”

She leaned forward and kissed him tenderly in response. 

“Are you sure? About the more?”

“Yes.”

“Alright.” He went to the small cabinet next to his bed and opened the top drawer. He retrieved a package of rubbers, tore one from the strip, and put it next to her on the bed. Then he resumed his former position on his knees. He pulled her closer to the edge of the bed and ran his tongue along the inside of her left thigh, stopping just before the juncture between her legs. She sighed and shivered. He repeated this with her right thigh, this time moving even slower. Then he used his thumb to give her clit the gentlest of strokes. She whimpered and bucked her hips against his hand. 

He pressed his tongue inside her, savoring her sweetness, her saltiness, her moisture. At the touch of his tongue, she gasped sharply; he felt the muscles in her thighs tighten and tremble. 

He moaned into her sex and inserted two fingers inside of her. As he licked her clit, she began to thrust herself against his fingers. He had meant to tease her a little, to draw back before she climaxed, but he couldn’t help it; he pushed his fingers in deeper and began sucking on her clit in rhythm with his fingers. A cry tore from her body as she crushed his head against her. 

When she lay back down on the bed, he climbed up next to her and kissed her cheeks, her temples, her forehead. She swallowed thickly and ran her hands over his back. He was now impossibly hard, and he wanted to fuck her so badly that he was almost dizzy, but he waited for her to be ready. 

They locked eyes. Without saying a word, she pushed his boxers over his hips and handed him the condom. He took it, kissed her hungrily, and put it on. 

He hovered over her. Sweat dripped from his forehead down into the space between her breasts. She parted her legs, took his cock in her hand, and gently led him into her. 

The heat, the wetness, the tightness … “ _Fuck_ , Granger.” He shut his eyes and drew in his breath sharply.

She wrapped her legs and arms around him like a spider, pressing his skin against hers, his chest against hers. Neither of them moved, not even to draw breath, savoring the seamless jointure of their bodies. 

He opened his eyes; she was looking straight at him. Her eyes were soft, but intense, peering into his as if she were searching for something. His throat tightened as he returned her gaze. Her right hand traced down his face’s angles, wisping across his lips, down his neck. She kissed him hard, invading his mouth with her tongue, seizing first his lower lip between her teeth, then his upper lip, grasping as much of his hair as she could hold in her fist.

Slowly, he began to thrust into her. She groaned against his mouth and arched her back, pulling him in deeper. He broke their kiss and pressed his forehead against her neck, trying to concentrate on the rhythm of her pulse instead of the overwhelming desire to lose all control. Her legs contracted tightly around his hips, encouraging him to pump faster. He lost himself in the motion, rocking his body against hers, acutely aware of the swells of her body beneath him, matching her soft groans with his own. Suddenly, he stopped moving, willing himself not to finish before she did. 

Sensing the nearness of his climax, she whispered: “Come for me, Draco.” That simple command was more than he could handle. He clutched at her hips, burying himself inside her over and over again, until he couldn’t discern her moans from his, until lights began to explode behind his eyelids, until he lost all sense of time, or place, or self. 

And when the world became solid around him once more, when he could hear something besides the rush of blood in his ears, he carefully slid himself out of her, anchoring the condom with his thumb and forefinger. He got up, threw it in the trashcan, and returned to the bed. 

They lay next to each other in a sweaty, panting heap.

“Sorry … not much stamina,” he said between breaths.

“Shh.” She stroked his head. “Amazing.” 

“Granger …”

“Mmm?” She snuggled into his neck.

“Stay here? Tonight?” 

“Yes.”

“Good.”

She turned on to her side, hair cascading across the pillow, arm draped across his chest. 

“Granger?” 

“Mmm?”

“I sort of like that I can’t remember having sex with anyone else.”

She hugged him tightly.

“Granger?”

“Mmm?”

“I think I might be in …”

“Shh.”

“Ok.” 

“Goodnight, Drake.”

“Goodnight, Granger.”

She seemed to fall asleep immediately. He kissed her head and listened to her breathe for a while before finally drifting off himself.


	16. Chapter 16

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The morning after. A chat with Harry. More of Draco's log.

**Sunday**

The wind whipped around his ears. They were all bathed in green light. 

"Draco, Draco, you are not a killer,” the old man said.

"How do you know?" he asked quickly. The words sounded childish in his ears. He felt a flush of embarrassment wash over his skin. His knees were water. His stomach threatened to empty itself at any moment. The stick burned in his hands. He gripped it tighter, leveling it at the old man. The old man was begging him not to do this, but didn’t seem afraid of him.

"You don't know what I'm capable of," he said, more forcefully this time. "You don't know what I've done!"

He felt his parents behind him, urging him to do this. Maybe this time, if he just turned quickly enough, he’d be able to see them. He had to take the chance. He whirled around, but they disappeared. In their place was Him. The snake/man.

“You disappoint me, Draco.” His voice was oil. Dirty. Clinging. “They will die. Because you have failed me.” 

“No.” He meant for his voice to be strong, powerful. It came out in a strangled plea. 

Suddenly, the green light in the sky contracted into a ball and streaked down towards the tower. He lifted his arms to the sky, shielding his eyes from the sick light. The bolt hit him squarely in the left forearm, sending a blistering pain throughout his body.

He felt blackness envelop him as he cried out and shut his eyes. 

Suddenly, there was another person in the darkness, shaking him, repeating his name. Only not quite his name. Close to his name, but not his name.

“Drake? Drake? Wake up. It’s just a dream. _Wake up_.”

His eyes snapped open. Early grey light haunted the room. He was in his bed. She was next to him, framed by a ghostly aura. The sheets were a sweaty, tangled mess. His forearm was fucking _on fire_. He cried out and brought it to his mouth, expecting blisters to rise on his lips. When none did, he pulled his arm away and threw the sheets to the floor. 

“The tower?” she asked. 

“I was fucking _there_ , Granger. I know I was. This isn’t. Just. A dream.”

“Drake …”

“Draco.”

“…What?”

“That’s what they called me. The old man, the … the other one. Draco. Like you do sometimes.” 

“Your subconscious must be mixing up the …”

“No.” He got out of bed and reached for his boxers.

“Where are you going?”

“I’m going for a run.” He opened his dresser and pulled out a pair of socks, nylon shorts and a T-shirt.

“Now? It’s barely six in the morning.”

“What the fuck do I care?” He asked, lacing up his trainers. 

“Don’t go. Stay with me. Let me get you a glass of water. We can talk …”

“I’ll be back.”

He threw open the door of his flat and bolted down the stairs and out the building’s entrance. He immediately broke into a sprint, ignoring the stiffness in his muscles. The sharp cold of the pre-dawn air cut through the dream-miasma circling his head. 

He focused on the way his feet thudded against the asphalt, on the small clouds of breath that gathered in front of his mouth. The rhythm of his stride began to erase his mind, slowly but surely, until he was aware of nothing but the ache in his legs and the fire in his lungs.  
\------------

When he returned to his flat, he stood in the living room, palms on his mid-thighs, slightly hunched over. She emerged from the kitchen. He looked up at her. She had showered and put on his clothes again. He nodded at her, too winded to actually form words. 

“Hey,” she said, throwing a banana at him. It bounced off his shoulder. He grinned, snatched it up from the floor, and thanked her. 

“I’d throw you a glass of water too, but I think that would be a bit messy.”

He straightened up and steadied his breathing. “Agreed.”

“You were gone for a while.”

“Yeah.” He walked past her into the kitchen. Sitting on the table was a half-empty tea mug and an opened envelope. He was annoyed, but he supposed she had the right; it was, after all, Sunday. He got a glass from the cupboard and filled it with water. 

“I borrowed your clothes.”

“I noticed.” He filled his glass again. “Knickers in the wash?”

“No. I brought a spare pair this time.”

He raised an eyebrow at her. The tips of her ears turned watermelon pink. He downed a second glass and started in on the banana. 

“I read your log.”

“I see.” The banana vanished quickly. He chased it with a handful of almonds from the jar she had put on the table. 

She shifted her weight from one foot to the other. He hated the look he knew he was giving her—he hated how distant he was trying to make himself from her after they had gotten so close to each other last night. But he did it, because it was easier, because it was the equivalent of running ten more kilometers. “I’m going to shower.”

“Alright.”

He took a change of clothes with him into the bathroom, and waited until he had closed the door before he peeled his shirt off of his body. He didn’t want to fall into bed with her again, to feel that kind of intimacy. Not right now. 

When he was done with his shower, he noted that his attempts at being demure hadn’t really mattered; she wasn’t near the door when he emerged. He ran a comb through his hair and hung up his towel. The smell of pancakes made his stomach growl audibly. 

He walked into the kitchen and poured himself another glass of water. She put three pancakes on each of their plates and handed him a fork.

“I thought you might want them hot this time,” she said.

“Thanks.”

He waited for her to begin a sentence with “About last night …” or “Drake, that dream …” or “I read something in your log …,” but she never did. She simply ate her pancakes, drank her tea, and stole glances at him when she thought he wasn’t noticing. 

She could only manage to eat two, and slid her third one into his plate. He looked at her to see if she would change her mind, but she gave him a half-smile and waved her fork dismissively, so he devoured it. 

“Good?”

“Mmm.”

“Good.” She took their plates to the sink and washed them. He leaned back in his chair and exhaled. He was so full of water and breakfast that he thought he was going to burst.

“You’re supposed to eat carbs _before_ a run, you know,” she said, drying a dish.

“Well you should have woken up earlier,” he said. 

She snorted. 

“Did you just snort?

“Yes.”

“Charming.”

“If you say so.”

She put the dry dishes back in the cupboard. He should have helped her, but he felt rooted to his seat. The exertion, the shower, the food … all were now combining in his system to create a perfect storm of sleepiness.

“You look like you need a nap.”

“I’m fine.”

She rolled her eyes. “Whatever.” She took the envelope from the table and brought it into the living room, probably to put into her bag. When she returned, she had his legal pad and favorite pen. “I need you to do that again this week.”

“Granger …” he grasped the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger.

“I mean it.”

He sighed in disgust.

“And use this pad and this pen.” She thrust them towards him. 

“Why?”

“… So it will match what you’ve already written. It makes it easier for me to keep everything together.”

“Fine. But I’m not making this a habit. You get one more week of this.”

“Deal.”

“You’ll be here on Thursday?”

“Yes.”

“Will you be bringing a spare pair of knickers?”

Her eyes went from indignant to embarrassed to coolly amused in a fraction of a second. “Wouldn’t you like to know?”

He grinned at her. “Thanks for cooking.”

“You’re welcome.” She sat across from him. “I’m going to talk to someone this week who might be able to help.”

“Oh?”

“Yes. I’ve been doing a lot of research.”

He said nothing. No sense subscribing to the false hopes she allowed herself to cling to. 

“Look,” she said, taking his hands in hers. “If I’m right about this lead, it might require some … different therapy.”

“What are you talking about?” He kept his hands limp in hers.

“I’m not entirely sure right now. But before I embark on any of this, I have a very important question.” 

“I don’t want a different social worker, Granger. Or a sodding psychiatrist.” 

“That’s not what I’m saying.”

“It’s not?”

“No. You won’t have to deal with anyone but me. I promise.”

“Good.”

“So I still have a question.”

“Go on then.” 

He realized that she wouldn’t ask it until he was looking her dead in the eyes. When he finally complied, she tightened her grip on his hands until it began to hurt. Tears were threatening to spill over her lashes, but her gaze was steady.

“Do you trust me?”

“Yes.” He answered without hesitation. His heart was hammering against his ribs, but he didn’t understand why.

“Are you sure?”

“I trust you completely.” His tongue felt like a wad of cotton. 

She relaxed her grip on his hands. Color flooded back into her knuckles. “Alright then.” Her voice was soft, almost broken. She wiped at her eyes with the back of her hands and stood. “I have to go.” Sadness radiated from her. He felt it infect him, spreading across his chest like a cold gust of wind. He wanted to tell her to stay, to pull her close to him, to lead her back into the bedroom where they could share heat and whisper to each other and knot their bodies together, but he didn’t. 

She went to the living room, picked up her bag, and turned to him. “I’ll be back on Thursday. Please call me if you need anything. And don’t forget your log. It’s very important.”

“Alright.”

“Uhm … thanks for the play.”

“You’re welcome.”

“I … I really loved seeing it with you, Drake.” His name sounded wrong on her lips, but he let it go.

“I loved seeing it with you too, Hermione.”

She took a step towards him and hesitated. Her lips were trembling. 

“And thanks for dinner, and tea …” she was sniffling now. She took another step towards him and threw her arms around his body, pressing her head against his chest, nuzzling against neck as if she wanted desperately to memorize his scent or the feel of his skin. Tears began to soak through his shirt. Part of him wanted to ask her what was wrong, but most of him didn’t actually want to know. She kissed his neck firmly, tightened her arms, and then let go. “I’m sorry for that,” she said. “I …” she cleared her throat. “I don’t really know what came over me.”

“It’s alright.” His own eyes had also begun to sting by this point. “Don’t explain.”

“I’ll see you Thursday,” she said. She gave his hand one final squeeze and left his flat. 

 

\-----------------------------------  
Hermione managed to maintain her composure until she made it back to her own flat. She assumed that she would be able to safely burst into tears once she reached her door, but that plan was foiled by the presence of Harry, hand poised to knock on her door just as she was turning down the hallway. She tried to duck away, but it was too late; he had already seen her.

“Hermione?”

“Harry.” 

“I was just coming to … what are you wearing?”

She looked down at Draco’s clothes, hanging loosely on her frame. She shifted her bag on her shoulder. “Clothes.”

“A little big for you, no?”

“I guess.” 

Harry’s eyes bored into her. She opened her door and gestured for him to follow her. Once inside, she retrieved two glasses, filled them both with firewhiskey, and set them down on the coffee table.

“It’s going to be that kind of Sunday morning, then?”

“Yes.” She took a long sip.

“What’s going on, Hermione?”

“You first.”

“My news doesn’t require firewhiskey.”

“Even better. Let’s hear it.”

“Ginny and I have set a date.”

“It’s about bloody time, Harry,” she said, a grin stretching across her lips. “When is it?”

“August 10th.”

“That’s wonderful.” She hugged her friend warmly. “Oh, I can’t wait. Will it be at the Burrow?”

“Of course. You think Molly would outsource this one?”

“You’re right. What was I thinking? Has Ginny agreed to wear her mother’s dress? The one with the birds?”

Harry sucked his cheeks in. “Dunno. Sore subject, that one. I try not to interfere.”

“Smart move on your part. So a summer wedding? Harry, it will be so beautiful.” Joy swelled inside of her. She was so relieved to be talking about this instead of rehashing the thoughts that had been swirling in her mind all weekend. 

“Your turn now, Hermione,” he said, snapping her out of her reverie. 

“For what?” She played with the edge of Draco’s shirt. It smelled like his detergent. Her skin smelled like his soap. 

“Don’t do that, Hermione. Not with me.”

Tears began to spill down her cheeks before she could sufficiently steel herself.

“Oh, Harry …” Breath hitched in her chest. 

“It’s noon. You’re just getting back from his flat, aren’t you?”

She nodded. He put an arm around her shaking shoulders.

“Hermione … are you …”

“Yes, OK? Yes.”

“Hermione …” His voice was soft, but still carried a tone of disapproval … or possibly concern … she couldn’t discern one from the other.

“I know, Harry. I know. _Believe me_ , I know. I can’t help this. I can’t help the way I feel.” 

“Oh, Hermione.” He pulled her closer, letting her cry on his shoulder without asking her anything else. After a few moments, she lifted her head up, dabbing at her eyes with tissues from the box. As she was brushing away the strands of hair plastered to her face, a very unpleasant thought suddenly entered her head.

“Harry … you didn’t just come here to tell me about the wedding date. You could have told me at work tomorrow. Or owled me to get dinner and told me then.”

“No, I just …” His words trailed off. “Alright, yes. Ron asked me to come.”

“That nosy git,” she muttered.

“Hermione, he’s just worried about you.”

“Like hell he’s worried about me. Intrusive _arsehole_.” She stood up and began to pace.

“Not this again. Can’t you sit down?”

“What right does he have to send you after me like some sort of watchdog? What did he even tell you?”

“Hermione, I would have done the same thing if I were in his place. Draco Malfoy is …”

“Don’t you get it?” She stopped pacing and turned to face him, bracing herself on the arm of the couch. “He’s not the person we all knew then.”

“How do you know that?”

“I just do. Harry, I’ve spent time with him, I’ve talked to him, I’ve …”

“Slept with him?”

“That’s none of your business,” she said hotly. But she knew that the red in her cheeks and the clothes on her body had answered his question.

“Hermione, look …”

“Harry, you don’t …”

“No, listen to me.” He put his hands on her shoulders. “Hermione, I meant it when I said that I trust your judgment. I always will. You are smarter and kinder and more judicious than just about anyone else I know. So if you say he’s changed, then I believe you. And if you say that you … enjoy being with him, then I trust that you are doing what you think is best. But look … where can this possibly go?”

“I don’t know,” she said, half in a murmur, half in a whine. “I don’t know, Harry.” 

He led her back to the couch, but she still wouldn’t sit. He sighed and began to pace with her again. 

“What about the … slipping? Is it getting worse?”

“Much.” She briefly recounted the contents of his log and the dream he’d had the night before. 

Harry swore under his breath. 

“While he was out this morning, I charmed his pen and paper with the same spell I use on mine. Anything he writes in his log will be immediately copied to this,” she said, digging a smaller notebook out of her bag. She flipped to the first page. Still blank. “This way I can keep tabs on him until we meet on Thursday.”

“Hermione, we have to go to the Council.”

“No.”

“Hermione …”

“It’s not the end of the month yet, Harry.”

He heaved a sigh of frustration. “Ok. So what’s your plan?”

“I’m going to go talk to someone. Someone who’s been through something that I’m going through right now.”

“Who?”

“I read about a witch who once erased her lover’s memories, but her spell went wrong somehow. I’m going to see if she can give me any sort of information that might help.”

“I’m going with you.”

“No, Harry.”

“But …”

“No. It’s not going to be dangerous. She’s an old woman.”

“And what if she tells you that there’s nothing you can do?”

Hermione paused, looked up at the ceiling, and filled her lungs. “Then we can go to the Council. I promise.”

“What if she tells you that you have to erase his memories again? And that you have to stay out of his life?”

Tears spilled down her cheeks. She kept her gaze focused on a spot in the corner of the room. “Then that’s what I’ll do. I just want to help him, Harry.”

He folded his arms and shook his head. “I don’t like this.”

“I know.”

“What if …”

“There are too many ‘what ifs.’ There’s no point asking them.” 

They exchanged looks and simultaneously gulped their firewhiskeys, giggling slightly as they slammed their empty glasses on the table.

“You’re a Gryffindor through and through.” 

“Because I can chug firewhiskey?”

“Because you’re doing this for him. Whatever ‘this’ happens to be. But now that you mention it, that _is_ pretty strong firewhiskey.”

She snickered, but then her face grew serious. “I want to give you something.”

“What?”

She walked to locked box in the corner of the room and tapped it with her wand, muttering something softly. When the box opened, she removed a blank piece of parchment and handed it to Harry.

“If I get myself into any sort of trouble, I will use this to tell you where I am.”

He nodded. “I still wish you would let me go with you,” he said, but he folded it and put it in his pocket. 

“Take what you can get, Potter.” She smirked at him.

“I always do.” 

“I have one more favor to ask you.”

“Alright.”

“I’m not going to work this week. I’m going to call in sick. Tell anyone who asks that I have something not serious, but highly communicable. Like … uhm … slug pox.”

“Gross.”

“Ah, that’s the desired reaction. Can you do that?”

“Yes.”

“Thank you, Harry. I mean it. And I really can’t wait for the wedding.”

“You and me both. Er … thanks for the drink, Hermione.”

He squeezed his friend’s shoulder and left her with her thoughts. 

\-------------------  
**Log for Sunday**

I tried to go for another run tonight, but my muscles wouldn’t let me make it more than two kilometers. I gave up and watched football instead.

Running temporarily erases it. So does booze and, as I recently discovered, sex. 

I used to think that “it” was the frustration of not remembering my past life, or the dissonances I experienced in this one, but that’s not quite right. The “it” that gets dissolved in adrenaline, exhaustion, alcohol, or sex is something I don’t understand. It’s a feeling that courses through my body. Not in my veins, like blood, but through my entire body. Through my nerves? I feel it at the tip of every pore. It’s a sort of power in some way, but it’s got no direction, no outlet. So it bubbles and seethes and courses through me, but it’s useless, it’s impotent, it’s blunted, it’s circuitous, it’s … neutered? I don’t know if there’s a word for this. Sometimes it’s like an itch, but an itch on the inside, as if the undersides of my ribs were covered in insect bites. Sometimes it’s like I’ve been puffed full of air, and no amount of exhaling deflates me. It’s maddening.

It goes away a bit when I’m with you. Because you are part of where I belong. If that makes sense. 

I’m going to bed now, Granger. I hope that if we end up on a train tonight, you look at me like you did last night.

\-----------------

Hermione read the words over and over before she fell asleep, clutching the enchanted notebook to her chest.


	17. Chapter 17

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hermione hunts down Florizell Askew.

**London Mon 11 PM  
NZ Tues 11 AM**

Hermione had scoured every book that might reasonably contain information about Florizell Askew. Nobunaka’s volume of _Where Are they Now?_ seemed to be the last mention of her. But because the book was only two years old, there was a good chance that Askew was still alive and well, living as a shepherdess in New Zealand. Therefore, Hermione could find something better than a book: she could find Askew herself. 

Nobunaka had given her a clue: Askew lived near a Muggle shop run by someone named William Spenser. With a little detective work, she had located the shop and marked out a three-kilometer radius around it. Askew had to live somewhere near there. And her house obviously wasn’t Unplottable, as Nobunaka had been able to find it. So that meant Hermione could too.

After consulting the Ministry’s global Floo network map, she found a location only thirty kilometers from Spenser’s shop: a Wizard Inn called The Brindleboar in Northland. 

Hermione dressed in Muggle clothing and packed lightly. She knew that Florizell would probably refuse to see her; showing up in Wizarding garb wouldn’t help her chances. 

\---------------------  
The Brindleboar was a small, sleepy place. When Hermione arrived in the Inn’s lobby via Floo, the only creatures that even noticed were two elderly cats, and even they barely lifted their heads. She stroked one of the cats idly as she stood at the front desk, waiting for another sentient being to acknowledge her presence. 

“Hello?” she called. 

“Just a moment!” a voice trilled. A few moments later, a young wizard with a pompadour rose from behind the desk. “Oh, my. How long have you been standing up there?”

“Uh, not long,” Hermione replied. Where had he even come from?

“Well I do apologize for the wait. Good heavens. And welcome to the Brindleboar. My name is Bernie. What can I do for you?”

“I’d like a room, please. And some directions, if that’s possible.”

“Of course, of course. You’re in luck; the best room in the house is vacant for the next few days. It’s the Gallant Room … amazing views. Just _amazing. _It’s a good thing you got here when you did; that room is almost always booked months in advance.”__

__“Great,” Hermione said, trying to hide the disbelief in her voice._ _

__Bernie beamed, took her galleons and handed her a key. “It’s just down the hall and to the right. First door you see. Now you needed directions?”_ _

__“Yes. I need to get here.” She showed him her map and pointed in the vicinity of Spenser’s shop._ _

__“Hmm. That’s a toughie. Let me consult with my travel expert on this one. I’ll be back in a jiffy.”_ _

__With that, Bernie descended beneath the counter once again. But before Hermione could even begin to figure out where the hell he was going, he was back again._ _

__“Alright, here is what we’ve come up with,” he said, giving her a piece of parchment. “When you leave here, walk about a kilometer down the main road. You’re going to see a fountain. That’s actually the gate into the Muggle world. Just climb into the fountain. Don’t worry, you won’t get wet,” he said, noting Hermione’s raised eyebrows. “When you get out of the fountain, you’ll actually be walking out of a public toilet in the Muggle town square. Once you’re there, you can get a bus that will take you two kilometers from where you want to be. From there, you’re going to have to walk.”_ _

__“Thank you.”_ _

__“And here, take this.” He handed her something wrapped in an old piece of flannel. “This is a portkey back to the Inn. So you won’t have to go through all of that to get back.”_ _

__“Wonderful.”_ _

__“The portkey requires a deposit,” he said, drawing the package back a little._ _

__“Of course.”_ _

__Hermione handed him a few more galleons, thanked him again, and retreated to her room._ _

__It was a small room, but clean and cozy. Bernie had oversold the view a bit; the window looked out over a pleasant, but unremarkable, meadow. But Hermione had far more important things on her mind at the present. She left the small bag with her change of clothes on the bed and set out for William Spenser’s shop._ _

__\------------_ _

__“Florizell Askew? You know you’re the second person to come by here looking for her, don’t you?”_ _

__“Am I?”_ _

__“Aye. Her sheep make the softest wool I’ve ever felt. Wonderful stuff. Got some things made of it right here if you’d like to buy some.” Spenser gave her a large, gap-toothed smile. Figuring that he’d be more likely to share information with some lightly greased palms, Hermione purchased a long red scarf. He was right about one thing; it _was_ incredibly soft wool. _ _

__“So do you know where I can find her?”_ _

__“Over yonder,” he said, gesturing towards the west. “Follow that dirt path. You’ll hit it eventually. But she mostly keeps to herself, you know. What business you got with her?”_ _

__“I just … have to ask her something.”_ _

__“She won’t give out secrets about her sheep. Lord knows I tried.”_ _

__“I appreciate the information, Mr. Spenser.”_ _

__“And I appreciate your business.” He smiled again and handed her the scarf, which she then stuffed into her bag. “Good luck with old Flory.”_ _

__“Thank you.”_ _

__The sun was hanging low in the sky. She’d never make it to Askew’s by nightfall. Hermione weighed her options._ _

__She decided that her best plan of action was to walk as far as she could before it got dark, and then find a secluded place. Once she found one, she’d memorize her surroundings and apparate there first thing tomorrow morning._ _

__It wasn’t a flawless plan, but it would have to do. She didn’t want to waste time tomorrow. Not after reading what she’d read:_ _

__**Log for Monday** _ _

__A new kind of dream last night. This one was so stupid I don’t even want to write about it. But I know you want me to. So fine. I was in a classroom somewhere (I want to say that it was a castle, but that doesn’t make much sense … even if I did go to a fancy private school, how many of them are actually in castles? And I don’t mean like an old building from the 1300’s, I mean an actual castle, with a moat and candles on the wall and ghosts. There are  ghosts in castles, right? I think so. At any rate, where was I?). So I was in a classroom and was in some sort of argument with Black-Hair, and then somehow, I am turned into a ferret. It was humiliating. It is even more humiliating to write this. What a stupid fucking dream._ _

__I am on my lunch break now. The last time I did this for you, I just wrote everything at the end of the day, but I actually find that I enjoy this a bit. I feel like you’re reading it as I write it, even though I know that is not possible (It’s not, is it? No, it’s not)._ _

__Work was tolerable this morning. Clem told me that everyone in the office dresses up for Halloween, which is next Monday. I informed her that I would not participate in something so childish. I think I used nicer words, but I’m not positive. She really gave me the hard sell. She said that this year they were going with a Wizard of Oz theme. Fiona was going to be Dorothy, she was going to be Glinda, Rick was going to be the Scarecrow, Allison from human resources was going to be the Wicked Witch, and Johnny the IT guy was going to be the Cowardly Lion. They said they still needed someone to be the Tin Man. I said that if Tad dressed as a Flying Monkey instead of his proposed costume as the Wizard, I would consider it._ _

__I don’t mean that, of course. I have no intention of smearing my face in silver paint and wearing aluminum foil to work next Monday. But if saying it makes Tad don that Monkey costume, I will consider it a Noble Lie._ _

__Tad cannot be the fucking Wizard. No fucking way. _ _

__The more I think about this, the more certain I become that I will call in sick next Monday. Thinking about Clem and Allison dressed like that is making my skin crawl. It’s not even worth seeing Tad as a Monkey. Besides, if Tad doesn’t take the bait and comes dressed as a Wizard, I will fucking lose my fucking shit. _ _

__Also, while I’m on the subject, I fucking hate those fucking decorations._ _

__Fuck._ _

__Back to work._ _

__I thought the pumpkin was just as bad as the witch, but it’s not. Not even close. Tad I.W. saw me sweating and ripping the edges of my papers, but I gave him the worst look I could muster and he shrunk back into his cubicle. Wanker. He cannot be a fucking Wizard. _ _

__I have to get out of here._ _

__I told Rick that I thought I might be coming down with something and left early. I don’t know if I’m going back tomorrow._ _

__I need a run._ _

__12 kilometers tonight. It was dark for the last quarter of it. I didn’t mind._ _

__My bed seems very cold without you in it, Granger._ _

__Goodnight._ _

__DM_ _

__\-------------_ _

__**London: 8 PM on Tuesday  
NZ: 8 AM on Wednesday ** _ _

__Hermione had made a smiley-face out of pebbles on the ground behind a large tree. She had also arranged four sticks so that they formed a square around the face, and put one large stone at the northwest corner of the square. It wasn’t particularly artistic, but she thought it was rather clever on her part._ _

__With both her artwork and its surroundings firmly in her memory, Hermione’s apparation plot was a total success._ _

__Sleep had been almost impossible last night. She kept the enchanted notebook next to her pillow so that she’d know immediately if he added to the log. At 1 AM, she heard words being scratched across the page._ _

__**Log for Tuesday** _ _

__The fucking Decoration Witch fucking RUINED the fucking flying dream. Here is how: the broom. The fucking _broom_ , Granger. I am flying on a fucking broom. I would think this is kind of funny, but fuck, it kind of makes sense. It feels like that’s what I’ve been flying on all this time. _ _

__I knew I couldn’t go into work after I realized that. Not with Her there on the wall flying on her sodding broom. Fuck. I called in sick. Fiona said I sounded like shit. She’s right. _ _

__My body didn’t let me run much. Maybe 5 kilometers. I jogged some, walked some, especially towards the end. It’s cold out today, but it felt good._ _

__Not sure what to do with my afternoon. I thought about calling you, but I don’t really like telephones. Had to use one to call Fiona. That’s enough for one day. Looked for owls in the park. Stupid of me … they’re nocturnal here. Maybe tonight?_ _

__I really feel like you’re reading this as I write. Are you, Hermione?_ _

___\--------_  
Hermione had wanted more than anything at that point to grab her quill and respond … but she knew that was just about the worst idea she’d ever had. So instead, she swallowed a lump of tears, sipped water slowly, and waited for his ornate letters to begin appearing across the page again.  
\------------ 

__Of course you’re not. That’s stupid. And what I wrote about owls? That is also stupid. But maybe not? I don’t know anymore. I can’t think right now. That itchy, bubbly feeling is driving me insane. Like I’ve got champagne underneath my skin. I’m going to go look for more sticks, I think. I will write more later._ _

__\---------------------------------------_ _

__There had been nothing since then. She had to force herself not to compulsively check the book as she walked down the road to Florizell Askew’s house, but every rustle of the branches or tall grass on the path sounded like letters being formed on a page._ _

__It turned out that her apparation point was only half a kilometer from her intended destination. Florizell lived in tiny cottage surrounded by acres of sheep-dotted green fields. The wooden fence that enclosed the pasture was itself surrounded by a lush forest that stretched as far as the eye could see. Hermione’s breath caught in her throat; she’d never seen anything quite so beautiful._ _

__As she approached the house, she realized that she hadn’t given any actual thought to what she was going to say to the woman. Askew hadn’t wanted to talk to Nobunaka. Would she even answer the door? This particular concern was obviated by Askew herself, who was not even in the house, but out tending the sheep in the pasture. Hermione tried calling out to her, but got no response. She was either too far away or Askew’s hearing wasn’t particularly sharp. Or, of course, Askew might be ignoring her._ _

__She got as close to Askew as she possibly could without actually climbing over the fence, cupped her hands around her mouth, and called out once more. This time, the woman looked up. Hermione waved frantically, heart fluttering in her chest. _Please, please, please._ And then, to Hermione’s great relief, the woman put down the bucket and walked over to her._ _

__She could not have been much more than five feet tall. Her face was deeply creased. Wisps of grey hair protruded from beneath her blue kerchief. Her ink-black eyes scrutinized Hermione suspiciously._ _

__“Yes?” she asked. Her voice reminded Hermione of a door hinge that needed oiling._ _

__“Uhm, are you … Ms. Florizell Askew?”_ _

__“Who is asking?”_ _

__“My name is Hermione Granger. I’d just … I’d really like to talk with you. Just for a minute. Please. I’m sorry to interrupt.”_ _

__“How did you get here?”_ _

__“I … I took the path.”_ _

__“How did you get to New Zealand?” She spat on the ground. “Do not lie to me, girl.”_ _

__“I … used the Floo.”_ _

__She gave Hermione a look of pure disgust. “I want all of you to leave me alone.”_ _

__“Please!” Hermione’s voice raised several octaves. “I don’t mean to bother you! I just need your help.”_ _

__“Leave me alone, witch.” She turned and began to walk back to her sheep._ _

__“ _Please_! Ms. Askew! Please! I … I made the same mistake you did! With Vasily!”_ _

__Askew froze in her steps, but did not look back at Hermione. “Then you are a fool. Like I was.”_ _

__“I need your help.”_ _

__“I cannot help you.”_ _

__“But …”_ _

__She put the bucket back down and sighed, folding her arms across her bosom. “I can’t help you, Young Miss. What makes you think that I could help you if I couldn’t help myself all those years ago?”_ _

__“I … I don’t know. I just thought …”_ _

__“You thought wrong. There is nothing I can do for you. Not now.” She picked up her bucket again._ _

__“Wait … _please_. I came all this way … please. Just one question.” Tears had thickened her voice to the point where she barely recognized it. _ _

__“And then you will leave?”_ _

__“Yes.” Hope sparked in her chest._ _

__“And you will tell no one you were here?”_ _

__“Yes.” The spark gathered into a ray._ _

__“Alright. One question.” She spat again. “But I guarantee that you will not like the answer.”_ _

__“Thank you.” She wiped at her nose with the cuff of her jacket. “Thank you. Ok.” She drew a deep breath. “If you could do the spell differently, what would you do?”_ _

__“You stupid girl,” the old woman said, shaking her head. “You understand nothing.”_ _

__Hermione blinked, waiting for her to say something else._ _

__The woman’s black eyes acquired a harsh glow. “I would not do the spell at all.”_ _

__“But …”_ _

__“I answered your question. Now go.” And with that, Florizell Askew turned back to her sheep and walked away, never once even glancing back at Hermione, who stood at the gate for fifteen full minutes._ _

__She had come all the way here for _that_? _ _

__When she finally realized that Askew had no intention of giving her anything else in the way of information, Hermione cursed under her breath and returned to the dirt path._ _

__Before she had even walked a hundred meters, she heard the tell-tale scratching of letters across a page. She stopped in her tracks and snatched the book from her bag._ _

__

__**Log for Tuesday (Continued)** _ _

__You would not like to see what I just did._ _

__You will not like it when I tell you about it._ _

__I had to get the bubbles out. The inside out. The seething to stop._ _

__It doesn’t come out this way. That’s not the way it works. I knew that, but I had to try._ _

__This way didn’t work, but I have another idea for tomorrow. I think I’ll just shower and try to sleep right now._ _

__I miss you, Granger._ _

__-DM  
\-----------------------------------------_ _

__“Oh, Draco …” Tears coursed down her face. What had he done? Had tried to make a wand? Hurt himself? Hurt someone else? Hermione’s stomach began to churn. This couldn’t go on much longer. If only Askew had given her some help! “ _I would not do the spell at all_.” What kind of advice was that? _ _

__Unless …_ _

__Sniffling, sobbing, heart pounding in her chest, Hermione stuffed the book back into the bag and left the path, headed instead for the thick woods that surrounded Florizell Askew’s cottage._ _

__Hermione walked deeper and deeper into the forest until her feet were covered in blisters, but she had finally found what she had been looking for: a small clearing. She tied her new scarf around one of the thinner trees and arranged a small cluster of rocks into a pyramid. That would have to do._ _

__\---------------------------------------------_ _

__She gathered her things from the Brindleboar and gave the portkey back to Bernie. He tried to ask her how she’d enjoyed the glorious views from the Gallant Room window, but she didn’t have time for that. Not after what she’d just read._ _

__\----------------  
**Log for Whatever Day it is** __

__Fucking Tower, fucking Broom, fucking insides. Fuck. I can’t keep this up. No more work. Not today. Fuck Rick and Tad and fuck this … if it’s Thursday, I might be OK. If not, Fuck. I’m sorry, Granger. I have to try again._ _

____

She tried calling him on his cell phone, but he didn’t answer. Not that she’d expected him to.

____


	18. Chapter 18

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hermione rushes back to Draco's flat

\-----  
Hermione used the Floo to get back to her flat, packed a few things into her bag, and decided to apparate straight into Draco’s building. He lived at the end of the hall, away from the staircase, so the likelihood of anyone seeing her was slim.

For now, at least, luck was on her side. The hallway had been empty. She pounded on his door. 

“Drake? Drake? It’s me. It’s Hermione. Open up.”

No answer.

She tried to quell the waves of anxiety swelling in her gut. 

“ _Alohamora_.” The door opened with tap of her wand. She stuffed it back into her bag. “Drake?”

The living room was dark, but there was a light on in the kitchen. She closed the door behind her and walked through his flat. The floor was littered with sticks and twigs of varying lengths. Most were broken in half.

“Drake?”

He was there at the kitchen table, hair a matted mess, face the color of flour. Dark brown half-moons gathered beneath his eyes. In one hand, he held a knife. In the other, a stick. He was wearing his running clothes and had a towel wrapped around his left forearm. Blood was smeared on his shirt and had begun to pool beneath his arm.

“Drake?”

He finally looked up at her, blinking slowly. “Granger? Is it … it must be Thursday, then.”

“Drake … what are you doing?”

“I don’t know.”

“What happened to your arm?”

“I tried to get it out.”

“Oh, Drake …”

“That’s not my name, Granger. Please don’t call me that.” He looked away from her again and began to spin the knife on the table. 

She swallowed and wiped her sweating palms on her jeans. “Draco.”

“That’s better.”

“Let me see your arm.”

“No point. It didn’t work.” The calmness in his voice was unnerving.

“Draco. Look at me.” 

He did. The distant, glassy sheen in his eyes made her wish he hadn’t.

“Do you …” Her voice was shaking. “Do you still trust me?”

He nodded very slowly.

“Then close your eyes. Right now. Don’t open them until I tell you to.”

“Alright, Granger.” His eyelids fluttered down. 

She retrieved her wand from her bag and pointed it at Draco. “ _Dormiso_.” 

When she was certain that he was asleep, she removed the towel from his left arm. What she saw forced her to grip the table to keep herself steady. A huge gash ran from his wrist to his elbow. “Dear God,” she whispered. Hermione retrieved a vial of salve from her bag and poured it over the wound. The flesh began to knit itself together instantly, leaving no trace of the injury whatsoever. She then quickly _scourgified_ his shirt and the table.

“I wish the rest of this was going to be that easy, Draco.” 

She pressed herself close to him and concentrated on a red scarf and a rock pyramid. 

\-------------  
He was still unconscious. This was a good thing. She didn’t think she’d be able to do this while he was awake. 

Hermione surrounded them with protective charms, making them invisible and inaudible to others in the very unlikely event that people just happened to wander by them in the middle of the forest. She shivered, set her bag down, and pulled out a jumper for herself and a blanket for Draco, draping it over his sleeping frame. 

She took a deep breath, hoping the air that inflated her lungs would bring courage with it. It didn’t. No matter.

“I’m so very sorry. I hope you believe that,” she whispered. She kissed his head, breathing in his scent, dousing his hair with her tears. 

And then she stood up, pointed her wand, and said in a firm, clear voice: “ _Finite_.”  
\--------------  
Draco was dreaming. 

In the dream, he was sitting at a table in a Muggle kitchen, trying to use a paring knife to whittle an ordinary oak branch into a wand. 

He actually had to chuckle at himself. What the bloody hell did he think he was doing?

Once he realized the futility of his task, he stood up and tossed the knife back down on the table and walked into the living room, which was actually an impossibly large library. Rows and rows of bookshelves stretched across the room, each shelf crammed with volumes of every shape and size.

Draco sighed. He had a _lot_ of reading to catch up on. He walked to the first row of the nearest shelf and grabbed the first three books. The first was a slim tome bound in blue leather: _The Way Things Smelled Vol. XIV: Your Mother’s Perfume, Holiday Feasts, and Sweaty Quidditch Robes._ The next was a heavy black book entitled _Lessons from Your Father Vol. LVXI: Things You Don’t Do Nearly Well Enough_. The last one in his arms was a well-thumbed paperback simply called _Exceptional Snogs_. 

He took the parcel of books to the black leather easy chair in the corner and began to read. To his surprise, the reading went remarkably quickly. In fact, it seemed like the second he lifted the cover, the contents of each book simply flooded into his brain. Well, he thought, pleased with himself, this shouldn’t take very long after all.

\----------------------------------------------------  
Hermione watched him. 

His lips moved, his eyeballs rolled beneath his lids. He smiled, he sighed, he furrowed his brow in anger. 

And when the movements ceased, she lifted her wand once again. “ _Assurgo_.”

\-----------------------------------------------------------  
He was just closing the last book— _Embarrassing Tales Which Must Not Be Repeated_ —when he suddenly felt very sleepy. He dragged himself back through the aisles of shelves, eyelids growing heavier with every step. As soon as he found himself back in the Muggle kitchen, he sat in the chair, lay his head on his arms, and closed his eyes.  
\----------------------------------------------------

He did not bolt awake, shout, and run wildly from the trees, as Hermione had expected. No, waking up was a deliberate process. His eyes were first, progressing from small slits, to lids half-mast, fully open. He then sat up gradually, taking slow survey of his immediate surroundings. 

She was sitting behind his head. She didn’t want her face to be the first thing he saw. Not when she had no idea how he was going to react. Her wand was tucked into the waistband of her jeans, where she knew she could reach it in a split second if necessary. 

He pushed the blanket off of him and tried to stand. Dizzied by the effort, he settled on merely remaining in a sitting position. 

“What the fuck?” he asked, perhaps finally fully realizing that he was sitting in the middle of a forest. 

She cleared her throat softly.

He jumped slightly and turned towards her. More emotions than she could ever identify crossed his face in a matter of seconds.

“Granger?”

“Yes.” 

“Where are we?” 

“New Zealand.”

“What the _fuck_ are we doing in New Zealand?”

“It’s a … rather long story. Uhm … how much do you remember?”

He looked at the ground, at his clothes, at his healed forearm. “What the hell did you do to me?”

“What’s the last thing you remember?”

He stood now, but was a bit shaky on his legs. She moved to help steady him, but he gave her a vicious look.

“A kitchen table.”

“Just sit and think for a moment. Let your memories organize themselves.”

“I’m not sitting on the sodding ground. What am I _wearing_?”

“Your running clothes.”

“What the _fuck_ are you talking about? How did I get here?”

“Drake …”

He started to say something else, but that single syllable seemed to freeze him. “Wh … what did you just call me?”

“Drake. Drake Malford. That was what I called you.”

“That was a fucking dream, Granger. How did you know that?”

“It wasn’t a dream.” She walked slowly to her bag and retrieved a small, rectangular piece of paper.

“What is that?” he asked as she tried to hand it to him.

She said nothing, but kept her arm extended, insisting that he take it. 

He did. 

“Do you remember?”

As he looked at it, his chin began to tremble. He sucked his upper lip in between his teeth and gazed up into the branch canopy. 

“ _No_ ,” he hissed. 

“We saw it together. Last Saturday. At the theater by your flat.”

“This is not. Fucking. Possible.”

“It is.” 

“Fuck.” He sat back down on the ground, pounding the grass with his fist. “What happened to me?”

“It was … a Council. The Ministry decided …”

“What did they do to me?”

“The Ministry thought that it would be safest for everyone if they …”

“I didn’t ask why they did it. I asked what they _did_.”

“It was a form of Obliviation,” she said. She sat across from him and hugged her knees to her chest. “It was supposed to erase all memories of your life as a wizard and give you general memories of life as a Muggle.”

“This is _beyond_ fucked up.

“You were all given new identities and …”

“All?”

“Yes.”

Suddenly, he looked up at her. “Where is my mother?”

“She’s … been Relocated. Like you were.”

Anger burned in his eyes. “Like I was?”

“But, listen to me … she’s happy. It wasn’t like it was with you. She has a new life, a job, she’s _happy_. I swear it.”

“Why should I believe a fucking word that comes out of your fucking mouth?”

She locked eyes with him. “Because you trust me.”

He snorted. 

“You can read her file if you’d like.”

“As if you couldn’t have just fabricated that.”

She shrugged. “Believe whatever you want. She’s happy, Draco. All of them are fine. Except you. For some reason, it didn’t work right on you.”

“This is … an outrage. I swear, when I … when I … _fuck_.” He pounded the ground again, then tore up a cluster of grass and dirt with his hands.

“I know that you are …”

“You can’t possibly know anything about me, Granger.” He flung the clump of dirt across the clearing. “So don’t you dare start a sentence that way.”

“Alright.”

“ _Godfuckingdammit!_ ,” he shouted. He wiped his hands on his running shorts. 

She watched him warily as he tried to get his mind in order.

“How much of that really happened? How much wasn’t a dream?”

“All of it.”

“Liar,” he spat. “This is such bullshit. Just get me the hell out of here so I can ...”

“It’s the truth.”

He snorted. “You’ll forgive me if I don’t believe a single fucking word that’s coming out of your mouth.”

“I guess that I …”

“What did they _do_?”

“I told you,” she replied. “It was a form of Obliviation. We called it _rescripso_. It was supposed to erase …”

Suddenly, he turned his face towards her. His eyes locked onto hers. “‘We’? _You_ did this?”

“I … it wasn’t just me … there was … a Council …” her words faltered and she was forced to look away from him. Tears began to flood her vision.

“ _You_ did this, Granger?” His voice wavered slightly.

“Draco, we had no idea that …”

“I remember you being there now. When they cast it on me.”

“Draco, I’m so very sorry.”

“Shut up.”

“I am.”

“You’re only sorry because of what happened to me. You wouldn’t be sorry if I were ‘happy,’ as you so assiduously keep trying to convince me that my mother is.”

“I was just …”

“Following orders? Yes, I know what that is like.” His voice was eerily calm.

“It’s not the same.”

“No?”

“Of course it’s not. We weren’t killing or torturing anyone …”

“So you’re saying what I was going through wasn’t torture? And what if you hadn’t shown up right when you did, Granger? I most certainly would have killed myself. We both know that.”

“But it’s not the same, Draco.”

“Why not?” he asked. “Because you say it’s not? Because you work for the Ministry? Because you’re a Gryffindor?”

“Because what y … what the Death Eaters were doing was because they were bigoted murderers. What the Council … what _we_ did was to protect people.”

“You are _such_ a fucking hypocrite, Granger. All of you.”

“What we …” she began.

“The difference is _degrees_.”

“And intent,” she said through clenched teeth.

He responded with a bitter laugh.

“Draco, listen to me.”

“I’m done listening to you, Granger,” he said, turning away. She grabbed his arm. “Do _not_ touch me,” he hissed. 

She winced, but let go. “I am not saying that what we did to you was right. I’m not. But we did it, alright? We did it and it happened and now we have to move on.”

“Move on? _Move on_?” he shouted.

“Yes!”

“You are such a …”

“I’m sorry I lied to you, Draco? Okay? I’m sorry! I’m sorry that this whole … stupid … fucking … thing even happened. Okay?” She began to sob openly. “But it did. And I’m trying to _help_ you.”

“Dammit, Granger,” He drew in a breath and folded his arms across his chest. “Don’t … look, don’t fucking cry, okay?”

She pulled a wad of tissues from her pocket and swiped across her eyes and nose. “Sorry,” she mumbled. “I’m just …” She sniffled and her chest hitched. “I’m sorry, alright?”

“Yes, I get that,” he said with a grievous sight.

“It was wrong, I understand that. But I can’t change what happened to you.” 

He swore under his breath, looked towards the sky, and then fixed his gaze back on her. “Aren’t you going to tell me that I deserved it?”

“Why do you want me to tell you that?”

“Isn’t that what you’re thinking?”

“No.”

“Liar.”

“Draco, I …”

“I suppose it’s just killing you that your little mind tricks didn’t work on me.”

She made no reply, but instead stood up and retrieved two bottles of water from her bag. She handed one to Draco, who scowled at her. She shrugged and dropped it at his feet.

“Occlumency, Granger.”

“What?”

“I used Occlumency.”

“But we weren’t using Legillemency.” Her brow furrowed. “There’s no reason that …”

“I didn’t know _what_ you were doing to me. But I figured Occlumency couldn’t hurt.”

“Well you were wrong.”

“Me?” He stood and glared at her. “ _I_ was wrong? What about what you people fucking did to my brain? I was ready to fucking …”

“I know what you were going to do, Draco,” she said softly, looking down at her feet. “That’s why I reversed it.”

“Well thank you for being so considerate, Granger.”

“I was trying to help you,” she said. She balled her hands into fists and locked them at her sides.

“And you had to bring me to a forest in sodding New Zealand?”

“I thought it would be safest here. For everyone.”

“Fuck this,” he said. He began to walk out of the clearing. 

Hermione waited. He made it to the edge of the trees, but then fell backwards, rubbing his nose. He stood up, dusted his clothes off, and whirled to face her. “Take the goddamn barrier down,” he shouted.

“No.”

“Take it _down_.”

“No.”

He walked back from the barrier and approached her. His face was inches from hers. “Granger. Do not make me ask you again.”

“Not until we finish talking about this.”

“I have absolutely nothing to say to you. Take the barrier down. I am going home.”

“Why are you still holding that ticket stub?”

He uncurled his fist. The sweaty piece of paper was crumpled inside. “I don’t know,” he muttered. His fingers closed around it again.

“I do.”

“You know nothing.” He glowered at her and turned away. 

He sat back down on the blanket and rubbed his forehead. She sat across from him. His eyes fell on the bottle of water, but he looked away. 

“It’s not poison,” she said.

“How do I know that?”

“Why would I bring you all the way out here and reverse the spell just to poison you?”

“Finish the job the Ministry started,” he grunted.

“That doesn’t make the slightest bit of sense,” she said. She reached for the bottle and rolled it towards him. “No one knows we are out here, you idiot. No one knows I did this. I am probably going to lose my job and my …”

“Well aren’t you just a saint, Granger? Helping poor Draco Malford. Malfoy. Draco Malfoy. Helping him get over a bad case of the crazies that the Ministry decided he deserved because he was just too dangerous to trust. What a fucking pile of _shit_.”

“You,” she said, taking a sip of water, “are still holding that ticket stub.”

He clenched his fist so tightly that his knuckles whitened. “So?” 

“Just an observation.”

“Fuck you.” He let the ticket stub fall to the blanket, but seemed to mark the spot with his eyes.

“Do you want something to eat? I brought sandwiches and fruit.”

“You have got to be kidding me.”

“Suit yourself.” She unwrapped a sandwich and began to eat it. 

“Where is my wand?”

“The Ministry has it.”

“I want it back.”

“I’m sure you do.”

“I’m not _playing_ with you, Granger.” His face began to turn mauve. “Get me the fuck out of here.” 

“I’m not playing with you either, Draco. And we’re not leaving until …”

“Until what?”

“I’m not exactly sure.”

“For fuck’s sake, Granger.” He sighed, perhaps acknowledging defeat, and reached for a bottle of water. “If this is poisoned, I’ll …”

“Die?” she said, biting into an apple.

He glowered at her and put the bottle back down.


	19. Chapter 19

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hermione and Draco hash things out

\---------

How she could just sit there, chewing her apple and looking up at the trees was fucking beyond him.

He had to get out of here. Away from her. Back to his home. Not his sodding Muggle flat, his real home. He needed to be by himself, to process all of this … to begin to comprehend exactly what had happened to him. What had been done to him.

But she didn’t really look like she planned on going anywhere. 

“It’s getting dark.”

“I bought a pair of tents. And sleeping bags. And there’s enough food to last us until … well, it’s pretty much an endless supply.”

“You are out of your bloody mind.”

“I think I might be.” 

She wrapped the apple core in a napkin and stuffed it into her bag. Her _bag_. The same bag she brought with her every week to see him. Had her wand been in there the whole time? Was her wand in there now? If he could just get it from her …

“Stop staring at my bag like that. My wand isn’t in there.”

“I don’t need your wand to kill you.”

She looked slightly ill. Good.

“You would kill me, Draco?” 

He couldn’t look at her. Or answer her question. Suddenly, she stood up and walked over to him, positioning herself inches from his face. She then picked up his hands and put them around her neck. 

“Go on then. I’m sure you could do it.”

Her skin was soft beneath his hands. He tightened the grip, hoping it would make her eyes light up with fear. It didn’t. 

“Go on,” she goaded. 

He clenched his teeth and set his jaw. 

“You’re going to have to squeeze tighter than that.”

“Why are you doing this?” he hissed.

“Why aren’t you killing me?” her voice was perfectly even. He tried to channel his aggravation at her calmness into his hands, but they disobeyed, instead relaxing their grip and sliding impotently down her throat, down her shoulders, back into his lap. Tears began to sting his eyes. He blinked them away. She picked up his hands again and put them on her throat. “Come on,” she said. The serene tone of her voice broke as her lips began to tremble. “Give it another go.”

“Stop doing that,” he rasped. Instead of closing around her throat, his hands instead cupped her face. He caressed her cheeks with his thumbs, brushing away the tears that began to slide down them. “Just stop.”

“Stop what?” Slowly, tentatively, she reached up and took his face in her hands, mirroring his own motions. 

He could feel her breath on his chin. His mind flashed to the way her face looked in the soft light of his living room on a night that seemed to have happened long ago in someone else’s life. He licked his lips, but didn’t bring them to hers. “Stop … stop ... acting like … like …”

“Like what?” she whispered.

“Like you didn’t spend over a decade hating me.” His voice was stronger now, fueled by a deep sense of disgust in the pit of his stomach.

She pulled back and opened her mouth to say something, but he cut her off. 

“Because I hated you too, Granger. That’s the first thing I thought when I saw you here. That I hated you.” She took his hands, crushing them so tightly in hers that it almost hurt. He tried to wrest them away, but she wouldn’t give them up.

“I know.”

“Let go of my hands.”

“No.”

“Let _go_.”

“Take them from me. You’re much stronger than I am.”

“You’re a bloody idiot.” He finally reclaimed his hands. 

“Probably.”

“Why did you bring me here?” 

“To keep you from hurting yourself or others.”

“Why are you here?”

“I just told you that.”

“No. Why did _you_ bring me here? Where’s Potter? Weasley? Shacklebolt? Anyone else?”

“I told you. No one knows about this. And it’s not,” she said, sitting up straighter, “because I think of you as a charity case. I could have brought this to the Ministry and had them figure out what to do with you. They could have re-erased your memory, given you another new identity.”

His stomach churned at the words. He was an experiment gone awry, a mindless mote of dust to be erased and reprogrammed at will. The fucking Minstry and their fucking …

“But I didn’t want that to happen. I didn’t trust them, Draco.”

“Because they fucked it up so royally the first go-round?”

“No. Well, yes. But also because no one knew you the way …”

“The way you did?” he sneered.

“Yes.”

“You didn’t know me, Granger.” His voice dripped with venom. “You knew the person you programmed me to be.”

She made a face like he’d punched her in the stomach, then stood up and marched over to the blanket, retrieving the ticket stub that had fallen to the ground. For an agonizing moment, he was sure that she was going to tear it in two. He half-rose to stop her before regaining control of his sensibility. What did it matter to him?

“We didn’t program you, Draco. We erased your memories of the wizarding world. This,” she said, brandishing the ticket, “and this,” she said, pulling his poorly-folded approximation of a napkin rose out of her back pocket, “are from _you_. Just you.”

“You kept that?”

“How could I not? It’s the last flower I’d ever get from you. That’s what you said, at least.”

“You are a sentimental fool.”

“Yes, I suppose I am. Do you want this back?” she handed the crumpled ticket stub to him. He almost reached for it. _Almost_.

“Stop that.”

“What?”

“Stop trying to make me think that I was … that I had any control over what I did after you fucked with my mind.”

“That’s what I’m trying to tell you, Draco. There was nothing in the spell that changed you as a person. Drake Malford was Draco Malfoy, just without the memories, without the upbringing, without the twisted lies that your parents had been pouring into your head since you were a baby.”

“You do _not_ talk about my parents,” he growled at her.

“I’m sorry.”

“No you’re not.”

“You’re right. I’m not.” Her voice had gained a considerably icy edge. “So how did it feel, Draco?”

“What?” His head was beginning to throb. When would this be over?

“Kissing a mudblood? Letting a mudblood sleep next to you at night? Making love to a mudblood?” 

“Shut up.”

“Why? Because you liked it? You certainly seemed to like it, the way you called out my name when you...”

“Shut the fuck _up_ , Granger,” he growled.

“No.” She walked up to him again. Too close. “No I will not shut up, not until you realize this: Draco Malfoy and Drake Malford are the same person. They are both you. That spell didn’t make you do anything or feel anything or think anything. It … it freed you.”

“Freed me? _Freed me_? Do you have any fucking idea what I was going through? Especially towards the end?”

“Alright, perhaps that was a poor choice of words. I admit that.”

“Someone alert the fucking _Daily Prophet_. Hermione Granger just admitted that she was wrong.” 

She rolled her eyes. He glared at her, fuming. 

“You made a pretty good Muggle for a while, though. Had a job, went for walks through the park. Jumped in a scummy pond to save a stuffed rabbit. Made pizza dough from scratch. Memorized lines from Shakespeare.”

“Shut _up_. God! Do you ever just shut up?”

“That was you, Draco. All of it.”

He clamped his hands over his ears and closed his eyes. He could feel the tears again, rising in his throat, burning behind his eyelids. He moved his hands from his ears to his face, fingers pressing against his brow so firmly that they trembled. She put her hands on his arms, digging her nails into his flesh. 

“That was _you_ ,” she said forcefully.

“Stop ... fucking with my mind.” He had meant that to sound like a command, but it came out as a strangled plea. 

“I’m not fucking with your mind, Draco. I’m telling you the truth. That was _you_.”

He pressed his lips together, intent on keeping everything buried safely in his chest, where it could pulse sharply against his ribs. For a brief moment, he wished that she would wrap her arms around him and let him breathe in her hair and her skin, because he knew it would smell just as it did in his flat, when she lay next to him on his bed. He wanted to let her cradle his head between her neck and her shoulder, to let her stroke his hair and kiss his forehead, to let her warmth erase everything. Instead, he wrung his arms from her grip, then took a deep breath and exhaled slowly through his nose. 

“You don’t know anything, Granger,” he said softly.

“You’re right. Not when it comes to this. I don’t have the slightest clue what I’m doing.” She spoke without a trace of sarcasm; her face was deathly serious. “I have no idea what to do once we leave this forest.”

“So we _are_ actually going to leave at some point?”

She stole a glance at him, obviously unsure how to take it. He attempted a smirk. 

“I assume so.” She attempted one back at him.

“Granger …”

“What?”

“I have to take a piss.”

“Oh.” Her face reddened a bit. “Well, we’re in a forest. I’ll just … turn around.”

He walked as far as the barrier would let him go, and then took care of business. When he returned, she had packed up the blanket and slung her bag over her shoulder.

“Does this mean we’re leaving?”

“Yes. I can’t keep you here like a … prisoner. I don’t know what else I’m waiting for, Draco. I trusted you enough to reverse the spell, so I’ll just have to trust you enough not to go on some sort of killing spree once we get back.” 

He shifted his weight from one foot to the other. “Where are we going to go?”

“The Ministry, I guess. I’ll explain everything to Shacklebolt and …”

“I don’t want to go there.”

“I can’t take you back to the Manor. It’s got anti-apparation wards around it.”

“I don’t want to go there either.”

“Well I can’t just drop you off in …”

“I want to go back to my flat. I want to get a few things from there.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes.”

She chewed her lip and took a deep breath before shrugging and saying, “Why the hell not?” She pulled her wand from the back of her jeans. His gaze focused upon it immediately. She eyed him cautiously, but said only: “Hold tight to me.”

He did.

\-----------------------------------------------------

The flat was exactly as he had left it, minus the blood. Sticks were strewn about the living room; a knife sat on the kitchen table. 

She kept giving him nervous glances, perhaps expecting him to lose his shit at any particular moment. He couldn’t blame her, really. 

“What are you going to do about my flat? And my job?”

“We’ll just tell everyone that you suddenly had to leave town due to a family emergency.”

“Right.” He began to gather up the sticks. She watched him for a few seconds and then pitched in. “Can you tell Tad that I had a flesh-eating disease and that anyone who drank out of my coffee cup on fucking purpose just to fucking be a fucking Insufferable Wanker should probably get tested?”

She snorted, then giggled, then began to laugh. The bundle of sticks she had in her arms tumbled to the floor. 

“Very graceful.”

She wiped at her eyes and cleared her throat. “He didn’t sound very pleasant to work with,” she said, collecting the sticks again.

“You haven’t a fucking clue.”

“Too bad you never got him to dress as a Flying Monkey.”

“How did you …” He stopped collecting sticks and scrutinized her. “Did you … of course you did. No wonder I thought you were reading it as I wrote.”

“What do you want to do with these?” she asked, offered him her armful of sticks.

“I don’t know.”

“These aren’t what you came back for?”

“God, no. I just wanted to tidy up a bit.”

She began to laugh again, even harder than before, and then trotted off to the bathroom.

“That funny, eh?”

“I drank a lot of water back there! Not all of us can just pee in the woods!” she called from the other side of the door.

He put the sticks into the trash. Then he rinsed off the knife and put it back in the drawer. When he reentered the living room, she was standing there, rifling through her bag. 

“What are you looking for?”

“This.” She walked up to him held out the wrinkled ticket stub. 

“You keep it.”

“I have my own. I took both of ours back from the ticket-taker. Keep it. So you remember.”

“I don’t need it to remem…” but his words were cut off by her lips, which had planted themselves over his. He stiffened and pulled away.

“I’m sorry,” she said, “I just …”

“You just what?” His voice was crueler than he had meant it to sound, and it made her wince. The corners of her eyes creased.

“I just … nevermind. I’m very sorry. It won’t happen again.” 

He gave her a hard look. Her soft brown eyes flickered in his gaze. He lifted a finger to her face and brushed his knuckle from her cheek down to her jaw. She gasped slightly. That sound broke his will; the next thing he knew, he was kissing her, holding her body tightly against his. He felt an erection begin to stir against the thin material of his running shorts and removed his lips from hers, pushing her away from him. He certainly couldn’t get them involved in _that_ again. He swore softly and took several steps backwards. 

“I’m sorry,” she said.

“That one was my fault,” he muttered. His eyes fixed themselves on the nondescript landscape painting on the wall behind the couch, then on the remote control, then on the square patch of sunlight on the carpet. Anywhere but her. 

“Draco?”

“What?”

“I never told you something.”

“Don’t tell me now.”

“Why not?”

“Because it’s something you were going to tell him, isn’t it?”

“You are him.”

“No I’m not.”

“Yes you are.”

“I have to get a few things out of my bedroom. You should … probably stay here.”

“Alright.”

He left her in the living room and got a briefcase from his closet. There was an expensive pen he really liked. And a pair of very nice sunglasses. And a copy of _The Complete Works of William Shakespeare_. And a purple hair tie with four bobby pins dangling from it. He closed the briefcase and changed into a grey jumper and blue jeans.

When he returned to the living room, she was sitting on his couch in the same spot she always sat in, writing on a piece of parchment. He tried not to look at her as he proceeded into the kitchen, even though he was fairly certain there was nothing in there he wanted. He searched through the cabinets and refrigerator, just in case. His eyes lit on a container sitting in the back of the refrigerator. Suddenly something made perfect sense. “You had meant to say Chocolate Frogs, didn’t you?” he called.

“Yes.” She sounded almost guilty.

“Thank _God_. I was seriously questioning your taste for a while there.” He walked back into the living room and looked around. There was nothing in here he wanted to take with him. “That’s it then.”

“Ok. Well. We can leave.” She took out her wand. “I figure we can go to the …”

“Do you …” he interrupted. He couldn’t believe he was doing this. “Do you want a cup of tea? Before we go?”

A simile positively lit up her face. “I would love one.”

He put the bag on the ground and walked back into the kitchen.

\---------------------------------------

She sipped her tea slowly, wishing that the cup could magically refill itself. He seemed to have the same idea. In fact, she wasn’t entirely sure he’d even tasted his yet. He had, however, stirred it diligently.

“Are you trying to create a tea vortex?” she asked.

“Tea tastes better when it’s been properly swirled,” he sneered. “Everyone knows that.”

“Thank you for the tip,” she said, nodding gravely.

She couldn’t quite believe they were sitting here at his kitchen table, not as Hermione and Drake, but as Hermione and Draco. Even if, as she had taken such great pains to remind him, they were the same person, it was still a bit unsettling.

“So where are we going?” he asked, finally sipping his drink.

“The Ministry. I … sent a message to Harry. He’s going to help us.”

“Potter?” He made a face like he had just sucked on a lemon.

“Yes, Draco.”

“How much does he know?”

She warmed her hands on the sides of her mug. “He knows I’m bringing you back. And that I reversed the spell.”

“And that we’ve …?”

“…Yes.”

“Bloody hell, Granger.”

“What do you want me to tell you? I needed help, Draco.”

He made a noise of disgust.

“Anyway, Harry is going to talk to Shacklebolt right now. Give him an idea of what’s happened. We’ll apparate into my office, Shacklebolt can fire me, and then you can go.”

“Go where?”

“Wherever you’d like.”

“Where is my mother?”

“Except there.”

“Granger …” his voice rose.

“Draco,” she countered, voice equally sharp, “your mother is happy. I can’t stress that enough. Seeing you would only … well, I don’t quite know what it would do.”

“End the spell on her.”

“I can’t do that.”

“Why the fuck not?”

“Because I don’t have the authority to do that.”

“Like you had the fucking authority to drag me to a forest in New Zealand?”

She sighed. He had her there. “Draco …” she began.

“Who else did you people do this to?” 

“Blaise and Pansy.” There was no point in keeping it from him.

“You’ve got to be _kidding_ me.”

“Not kidding.”

“This is ridiculous. You have to reverse it on them. They weren’t doing anything wrong.”

“You’ll have to talk to Shacklebolt about that. I am fairly confident that I will have very little clout with the Ministry after this … escapade. But listen to me: they’re _fine_. All of them.”

“So you mean to tell me,” he said, leaning forward in his chair, “that none of them … not Blaise, not Pansy, not my mother … none of them are like I was?”

“Not even a hint.” 

“Did you feed them all that story about the witness protection program and the head trauma?”

“Yes.”

“And they fell for it?”

“You did,” she pointed out.

He slammed his flat palm on the table. A bit of tea sloshed over the side of his mug. “It sounds so bloody stupid now,” he said, wiping up the tea.

“I know.”

“Granger, I want to see my mother.”

She sighed. “Wait here.”

Hermione went back into the living room, retrieved a file from her bag, and tossed it onto the kitchen table. Draco began to sift through it, skimming through Dean’s inelegant prose, pausing to run his fingers over the frozen photographs.

“If Shacklebolt won’t listen to me,” he began, pausing on a picture of Narcissa at what must have been her office. She squinted at a computer screen, cradling a telephone between her ear and her shoulder.. “If I can’t …” He cleared his throat and rubbed his hand across his chin. “Will you .. let me know if … will you keep tabs on her?”

“Of course. And if … _when_ I’m fired, Harry will. I promise.”

“Fucking Potter.”

“Yes, Draco. That’s who he is. And I’m Hermione Granger. And you’re having tea with me.”

“What’s your point?”

She sighed. He drummed his fingers on the tabletop. Neither of them drank the tea.

“You’re sure you’re going to be fired?”

“I can’t see how I wouldn’t be. I’d fire me, if I were Shacklebolt.”

“I see.” he looked as if he had meant to say something entirely different, but clamped his mouth shut and began to twirl the teaspoon between his fingers. 

“I told you last weekend that I wouldn’t regret it if I lost my job.”

“That was different … you were talking about …”

“I was talking about the same thing.”

“No you weren’t.”

“Yes. I. Was.” Her voice was firm. “Draco, I …”

“Don’t.”

“Fine.” She balled a napkin inside of her fist.

“Good.”

“But just because I’m not allowed to tell you ...” 

“Shut up,” he whispered, squeezing his eyes shut tightly and pursing his lips together. 

“Look at me.”

He did. A watery film trembled over his grey eyes. She took his left hand and clasped it between hers, then kissed the tips of his fingers and pressed his palm against her cheek. He skimmed his thumb across her lips. 

“This is too much for me, Granger.”

“I understand. I’m not asking anything of you, Draco. When we get back, you can forget everything that happened between us.”

He nodded slowly. 

She brought their mugs to the sink and dumped the cold tea down the drain, trying to be as business-like as possible. “We should go,” she said. “Harry’s waiting.”

She expected a snide remark at the mention of Harry’s name, but he said nothing. She hung the mugs on the drainboard and they walked into the living room. She put her bag over her shoulder and picked up her wand. “Do you have everything you want to take with you?”

He looked around the living room one last time. “Yes.” He picked up his briefcase, but made no move to join her on the other side of the room.

“Alright then. You have to … you have to hold on to me for this to work.”

“Right.” He crossed the living room slowly and stood by her side.

She looked up at him. His hair was a mess, his eyes were rimmed with red. She readied her wand as he wrapped an arm around her.

“I won’t forget, Granger,” he whispered in her ear. “How could I?’

She swallowed, closed her eyes tightly, and Apparated them out.


	20. Chapter 20

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Consequences ... and Cadell's last stand

\------------------------------  
Harry was standing in her office when they got there. He rushed over to her. 

“What took you so long? I was starting to get worried. When I read that you were … ” He seized her by her shoulders and looked at her face, no doubt blotchy and tear-streaked. “Are you alright?”

“I’m fine, Harry.”

She stole a glance at Draco. He was looking at the ground, fingers white-knuckled around his briefcase. 

“Are you sure?”

“Yes.”

Anyone else would have said: “I can’t believe you did this, Hermione!” or “Why didn’t you discuss this with me first, Hermione?” or “You are royally _fucked_ , Hermione!” 

Not Harry. And that’s why he’d been the only one she’d told. 

Harry even managed a semi-cordial, “Hello, Malfoy,” to which he’d received a curt nod, accompanied by a similarly semi-cordial: “Potter.”

“I talked to Shacklebolt. He’s …er … not happy.”

“I figured as much. How bad is it?”

“Well … I don’t think he’s going to transfigure you into a toad, but don’t expect any parades in your honor any time soon. He’d like you to both to go see him as soon as possible.”

She drew in a breath. “Thanks, Harry.”

“Can we talk later?”

“Yes. I’ll owl you.”

He hugged her and whispered “Good luck,” in her ear. And with a final nod to Malfoy, he left her office. 

She removed her wand from her pocket and put it into a paper bag.

“What are you doing?” Draco asked.

“Getting ready to turn this in. It’ll be easier if I don’t have to look at it.”

He moved his eyes back down at his shoes and said nothing. 

\---------  
It wasn’t nearly as bad as Hermione had expected. Being best friends with Harry Potter and one vertex of the Golden Trio did in fact have its privileges. Shacklebolt had removed her from all matters pertaining to the Relocated, of course, but he had not taken her wand. He hadn’t even fired her. Instead, he reassigned her to a position in the department of the Welfare of Magical Creatures, where she would act as a liaison to house-elves. It was more than she could have asked for, and she was grateful.

Draco was also given a position in the Ministry. Whether this was to keep him complacent or because he had asked for one, Hermione did not know. He served as a special advisor to Shacklebolt, informing him about likely Death Eater hideouts and helping him break new curses. He even worked with Harry on occasion, which Harry said had been awkward at first, but that they had soon had found a way to be civil with one another. Harry told Hermione that Draco was good at his job, and that although he had been hesitant at first, he now actually seemed to enjoy foiling Death Eater plots. 

Their offices were in completely different buildings. She saw him in the cafeteria on the rare occasion she chose not to eat lunch at her desk, but other than that, they rarely crossed paths. 

This was generally fine with Hermione, because seeing him made icicle stalagmites form in her stomach and steel hoops close around her lungs. 

In November, she patched things up with Ron. He was angry that she had hid things from him, she was angry at him for him prying, they were both angry at each other for being huge prats. But then they laughed, and hugged, and he told her he was thinking of asking Geri to marry him, and she was genuinely happy for him. Snub-nose and all. 

There was a celebration at the Burrow at the end of November to celebrate Geri and Ron’s engagement. Hermione hadn’t felt much like going, but Harry had asked her to be there, and she couldn’t say no. Cadell was there, and he was nice to talk to, and they agreed to get dinner sometime. Ron positively _beamed_ when she told him that.

Cadell had terrible taste in restaurants, and she teased him for this, and he smiled at her in his shy, goofy way. She let him kiss her, and his mouth was warm and soft. But it ended with kisses outside her door. 

In early December, she saw Draco sipping butterbeer with Astoria Greengrass at the Three Broomsticks. She bit her lip so hard that she tasted blood and left before he could see her.

For Christmas, Cadell had given her a first-edition copy of _Selwyn Sussman’s Metaphysical Transfiguration: Theory into Act_. She smiled when she opened it, and marveled at the condition of the book, and promised him that it would have a prized position on her bookshelf. And then she laughed as he opened the exact same thing from her. That had been a good night, and she had almost invited him inside when he dropped her off, and if she had perhaps drunk more eggnog at the Burrow, she would have. But she hadn’t, so she didn’t. 

Just as she was about to go to bed that night, an owl fluttered to her window, pecking at the glass. She looked at the clock: there were two more minutes left in this year’s Christmas. The owl had a small box wrapped in red foil tied to its leg. There was no note. 

Inside the box was a tiny, perfect paper-napkin rose.

She put it back into the box, closed her fist around it, and cried until she slept. 

In January, Cadell asked her to be his date to Ginny and Harry’s wedding. Hermione pointed out that he didn’t need to ask her to be his date, seeing as how they were both already invited. He pointed out that this wasn’t an answer to his question. She smiled at him and shook her head, but said nothing else. 

Hermione worked very late on Valentine’s Day. There was, after all, a serious problem with ear-rash amongst the house-elves. Cadell said that he understood. She was quite sure that he didn’t.

In March, she was possessed by a sudden urge to clean her flat. She told herself that it was the promise of spring’s warmth and light that spurred her desires, and not the fact she’d lost her favorite quill, but no matter what the underlying reason, the fact remained that she was kind of living in a sty. She spent so much time at the office that her housework often went undone, and even though things could be taken care of with a simple spell, even that seemed like too much of an effort most nights. But today the piles of clutter seemed to call out to her, and she set about sorting through them. 

The last stack of untidied books and papers lay in the corner of her bedroom. It was so old that she couldn’t even remember what was in there. As she began to look through them, she froze. They were her notes on memory charms from back in September. And on the bottom of the pile was her notebook, the one that Draco’s log was charmed to copy into. Before she even realized what she was doing, she opened to a blank page and wrote the first words that came into her mind:

she pined in thought,  
And with a green and yellow melancholy  
She sat like patience on a monument,  
Smiling at grief. Was not this love indeed?

Then she closed the book and put it on her nightstand. She put the rest of the pile into her filing cabinet.

She checked the book every night before she went to sleep. There was no response, of course. Why would he still have the yellow legal pad where he had once detailed his mental breakdown? 

But then … on the very last day of March, just when she was about to curse herself for being so foolish and toss the notebook into the trash, she watched, open-mouthed, as his ornate script appeared beneath her own tiny print. 

_Is that your history, Granger?_

She tossed off the covers and knocked over a glass of water and a stack of books, frantically searching for a quill. As soon as she found one, she rushed back to the notebook, but then realized she had no idea what to say. So she simply wrote: 

Draco?

There was no response. He must have stepped away. Tears began to cloud her eyes, and she wanted to throw the quill in frustration, until these words appeared:

_Who the hell do you think this is?_

You kept the legal pad?

_No. I tore a scrap from it and used it as a placeholder in my Shakespeare book._

Oh. You still have that?

_Obviously._

Yes, I suppose that was another stupid question.

_When did you write the lines from 12th Night?_

A few weeks ago. Thank you for the flower on Christmas. I meant to thank you in person, but I didn’t know what to say.

_Welcome. This scrap is very tiny. Can’t write or read much more. See you. DM_

She tried to write more, but the paper would not allow another drop of ink to be spilled on it. She clutched the book to her chest and made a futile attempt at sleep. 

On the first really warm Saturday in April, she went to her favorite Muggle park and spread her books on a blanket. She’d been a bit overzealous in estimating how many she’d actually get to read, but she didn’t want to run out of books before she ran out of sunshine. So she picked the top one from the teetering pile and sprawled out, rolling up the cuffs of her jeans to soak up as much sunshine as possible. She was soon engrossed in the book, and was therefore somewhat startled when someone above her said: “Is there any room for another person on that blanket, or is the extra space reserved for more books?”

Her heart stopped when she heard the voice. His voice. She turned and looked up at him, a black silhouette framed by the garish sun.

She sat up, pushed the stack of books off of the blanket, and gestured for him to join her. Once he sat, she noticed that he was wearing nylon shorts, trainers, and a white T-shirt. She grinned at his ensemble.

“I might stink,” he said, sitting next to her.

“Duly noted.” He didn’t stink, of course. He smelled like sunshine and him. “Still running, huh?”

“Yeah. Couldn’t break the habit.”

“How have you been?”

“Alright. You.”

“Can’t complain, really.”

“Good.”

“Yes.”

“So … er …,” she began, desperate to continue the conversation, but completely at a loss for words. “Do you come to this park often?”

“Sometimes. There’s another one much closer to my flat that I usually prefer, but I felt like branching out a bit.”

“I see.”

“Granger…”

“Draco…”

They both laughed uneasily, then both urged the other to speak, then both looked at their hands.

“I was just going to invite you to my flat for tea sometime,” he said.

“That’s funny. That’s what I was going to say to you as well.” She smiled at him. It felt good. 

“I insist,” he said.

“Oh no,” she replied. “I owe you. After all the tea you made me back when ...” her voice trailed off.

“No, I owe you, Granger,” he said firmly. “And I’m not arguing about this.” He took her quill and scrawled an address on a piece of her notebook paper. “Next Saturday? Two o’clock?”

“I think that sounds lovely.” 

“I’ll see you then.”

He stood up, smoothed out imaginary wrinkles from his shorts, and said goodbye. She watched him jog off until he was swallowed by trees and the horizon. Happiness bubbled in her stomach and spread across her face. 

The week crawled. 

Cadell called on Wednesday to see if she had plans for Saturday night. Technically, she didn’t, but she didn’t tell him that. She agreed to drinks after work on Friday at the Hideout instead. Geri and Ron and Ginny and Harry would also be there, so it wouldn’t seem like too much of a date. 

She had been wrong about that last part. She knew this before Cadell even arrived. Geri and Ron were giving each other goo-goo eyes and talking about a destination wedding. Harry and Ginny were giggling to themselves and holding hands under the table. When Ginny declined a firewhisky in favor of a mug of pumpkin juice, Hermione arched her eyebrow at Harry. He shrugged, grinned, and exchanged a knowing glance with Ginny. Hermione’s jaw dropped. Harry held a finger up to his lips, glancing over at Ron and Geri, who were so thoroughly off in their own little world that they had no idea about the momentous body-language conversation that had just been held at their very table. 

Hermione was practically bursting at the seams with questions, but she held her tongue. Just as she was about to launch a clever plan to get Harry or Ginny alone, Cadell showed up. Hermione tried not to let disappointment show on her face as she greeted him. 

“Hey there, Mermione,” he said. 

“Calell,” she nodded, kissing his cheek. Ron would have winced if he had heard any part of that exchange.

“So what’s everyone drinking? Let me get another round.”

“You’re a good man, Cadell,” Harry said. They each grabbed another drink from the bar tray. 

“How’s the Owl Post treating you?” Ginny asked.

“Well, other than the fact that I usually smell like owl shit, fantastic.”

They all laughed heartily at this. Hermione thought it would have been funnier if he did not indeed smell so very much like owl shit. Reflecting on this made her think about Draco’s shirt and running shorts, the ones she had worn home that time after they had seen the play. She had never given then back, and had slept with them on more than one occasion, even after they had lost his scent. 

“Oi, Hermione, are you in there somewhere?” Ron said, waving his hand in front of her face.

“Sorry. Just thinking about work.”

“Now that’s a rare occurrence.”

“Whatever, Ronald. You should talk. I bet you didn’t even hear Cadell and me poking fun at you a little while ago.”

“What are you going on about?”

“Nothing.”

Ron got somewhat exasperated. “Tell me!”

“Calell, were we making fun of him?”

“No we were not, Mermione.”

Ron’s face glowed magenta. “Bloody hilarious,” he muttered. 

The table erupted in laughter again and Hermione felt good. Cadell fit so perfectly into her group of her old friends that Hermione sometimes forgot he’d never been to Hogwarts. Never ate Chocolate Frogs with them on the train, or practiced dueling with the DA, or snickered in a potions class when a Slytherin’s cauldron turned feral. 

When Ginny nipped off to the loo—for what seemed like the five hundredth time, Hermione noted—Geri went with her. Ron immediately engaged Cadell in a discussion of the Harpies’ chances next season. Cadell shifted awkwardly in his seat and gave diplomatic, overeager answers. Hermione giggled to herself, knowing that Ron was having an internal laugh at Cadell’s expense. While the two of them chattered on, she leaned across the table to Harry. 

“So?” she whispered.

“So what?” he asked. He was trying desperately to hide a grin.

She exhaled impatiently and drummed her fingertips on the table. “When?” she asked.

He mouthed the word “November” to her. She gasped as subtly as possible. 

“Of course I pay attention. I even wear my special glasses to get a better view. Isn’t that right, Hermione?”

“What?” She looked over at Cadell, still smiling uncontrollably. “Oh, yes. Yes. He’s shown them to me. They’re magnificent.” 

“What are you so giddy about?” Ron asked.

“Oh nothing. Just … work.”

“ _Work?_ You are seriously damaged,” Ron said. “Where do you think Ginny and Geri have gotten off to?”

“You know women and the bathroom,” Harry said. But he craned his neck around the bar in search of them as he had said it.

Hermione was just about to offer to go and check on them when Geri returned to the table alone.

“Harry, Ginny isn’t feeling very well. I think she must’ve eaten something that didn’t quite agree with her. She told me to tell you that she would meet you at home.”

“Poor Gin,” Harry said. “I told her that salmon looked sketchy. Well, I’d better go, mates.”

Not long after they had said their goodbyes to Harry, Ron and Geri decided to cut out as well, leaving Hermione alone with Cadell, exactly what she had been trying to avoid by agreeing to meet him here in the first place. 

They sat and talked about books and politics and exchanged a few amusing childhood anecdotes. Hermione giggled at Cadell’s magnificent impression of Arthur Weasley using a ballpoint pen and he marveled at how quickly she could translate nursery rhymes into ancient runes. The evening passed more quickly than she had anticipated. It was easy to be with Cadell. He always returned her smiles

When they had finished their drinks and settled the tab, he reached across the table and took her hand. “Do you want to come back to my place?”

Her mouth opened, but no sound came out of it.

“I’m … woah … I’m sorry, Hermione. That was really forward of me. Woah. I’m so sorry.” He covered his face with his hands. The flesh peeking out between his fingers was bright pink. He separated his index and middle fingers enough to reveal one dark brown eye. “Sorry,” he said again.

He looked so sheepish that she couldn’t help but laugh. “It’s alright,” she said, pulling his hands from his face. 

“Sorry. I … wow. Sorry.”

“You can stop apologizing now, silly. I … find your candor charming.”

“You do?” The embarrassment on his face turned to hope.

“Yes. But …”

“But?” The hope turned to resignation.

“But I can’t come home with you.”

“No?”

“No.”

“Hermione? May I continue with my charming candidacy here?”

“If you like.” She squirmed in her seat a bit.

“Where … uh … where is this going? You and I, I mean. Look, I’m just going to be honest here. I really like you. Very much. You are so smart, and so lovely. And sometimes I get the sense that you like being with me, that you want to keep seeing me, and sometimes you seem … rather distant.”

“Cadell, I do like you. And I do like being with you.”

“But …?”

“But … I’m just …” she sighed. He really was very sweet. And smart. And funny. A year ago, she probably would have settled right into a relationship with him. Then they could have stubby-chinned, poofy-haired babies who learned to read before they learned to walk. But now? 

“You’re just what?”

But now, she couldn’t keep stringing him along like this. It wasn’t fair.

“I’m just … well … I’m sort of hung up on someone else.”

“Ah, I knew it.” He docked his chin onto his open palm and sighed. 

“You did?”

“It’s Ron, isn’t it?”

An involuntary laugh burst from Hermione’s lips. “Ron? No. That ship has sailed.”

“Then … who is it?”

“It’s just … someone else I went to school with.”

“Harry?”

“No,” she said, giving her head an exaggerated shake. “There were more than two male students at Hogwarts, Cadell.”

“I know,” he admitted. “I was just hoping it would be someone unavailable.” 

“Cadell …”

“Because whoever this guy is, as long as he’s not Harry or Ron, seeing as how one is engaged to my sister and the other is about to be a father … don’t look all surprised, I’m sure you figured it out too … whoever this guy is, once he figures out what an absolute gem you are, I won’t stand a chance.”

“I’m sorry, Cadell.”

“I figured as much.”

“You are going to make someone else the happiest woman in the world one day. You know that, don’t you?”

He offered her a half-smile. “I was kind of hoping that woman would be you,” he said, hopping off of the barstool.

“I’m sorry,” she repeated. She had no idea what else to say. 

“Not as half as sorry as I am.” He took her hand in his and brought it to his lips. They were warm and soft, as always, but their presence against her skin left no heat. “I’ll see you around, Hermione.”

“See you, Cadell.”

She didn’t really know how she was supposed to feel as she watched him walk out of the bar. Sad? Relieved? Remorseful? Guilty? She decided that she felt a small bit of each of those. But all of these emotions were overshadowed by the anxiety and elation that raced through her when she thought about seeing Draco tomorrow. And that was why she knew she had done the right thing by pushing Cadell away. He was sweet. He was safe. He wasn’t Draco.


	21. Chapter 21

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Draco and Hermione have tea. And angst.

In the moment between her knocking on his door and him answering it, she marveled at how oddly familiar this all felt. It really wasn’t that long ago that she had been doing this very same thing, albeit under rather different circumstances. 

Her stomach was an absolute disaster. Every breath she drew set shivers of ice into her gut. Each step she heard him take towards the door made her mouth a little drier. When he finally opened the door, her tongue was practically welded to her bottom teeth.

“Granger,” he greeted.

“Hello,” she managed to murmur. 

“Come in.” He opened the door wider and gestured for her to follow him inside. She gave him a thin smile and followed. 

The flat was much smaller than she had imagined. In fact, it was downright tiny compared to Malfoy Manor. She knew that even though the Ministry had seized his family’s mansion, Draco still had plenty of money. Why was he living _here_? 

“Not what you pictured?” he asked, obviously noticing her wide-eyed survey of his abode.

“Not quite. But it’s very nice. I mean that.” She did. The furniture was sleek and modern: a black leather sofa, a glass coffee table, and a dark wood bookshelf that spanned an entire wall. She was, of course, immediately drawn to this.

“Would’ve put money on that,” he said as she began to inspect his books. 

“Whatever.” The shelves were filled with a standard array of books: old textbooks from Hogwarts, biographies of famous witches and wizards, and strategy guides for wizard chess and Quidditch. But scattered amongst these tomes were other texts, ones that hinted at his previous life: a handful of cookbooks, a book about football, and, of course, _The Complete Works of William Shakespeare_. She ran her finger over its creased spine. 

The only other thing on the bookshelf was a single framed photograph of a very young Draco and his mother. She leaned towards him, using a gloved finger to wipe an invisible smudge off of his cheek, then turned to the camera and smiled as Draco hugged her. 

“They let me go through some stuff from the Manor,” he said. “That’s how I got the picture and the books.”

“I … I wasn’t …” She drew back from the picture quickly, face reddening. 

“There were other pictures, but that’s the only one I like,” he said, ignoring or dismissing her stammer.

“So … uhm … how long have you lived here?”

“A few months. They didn’t really know what to do with me at first. I stayed at an Inn until they decided I should be allowed to have access to my family’s money.” His tone had started out civil, but became bitter towards the end. “Then they couldn’t tell me where to live or what to do.”

“So you … moved here?”

“Yes.”

“And you … like it here?” 

“Yes.”

“Hmm.” 

They were still standing across the room from one another.

“Well then.”

“Yes.”

She put her bag down on the floor and glanced around the rest of the flat. There were far more windows here than in his previous residence, and no television or washing machine. But other than that—and the fact that his bookshelf had books on it—it bore a striking resemblance to where he had lived in Muggle England. 

“I don’t suppose your kitchen window looks out over a dumpster?”

“Come see.” 

He led her into the kitchen. There was a small table with two chairs, a stove heating a kettle, and a large picture window that offered a glorious view of the park across the street.

“A marked improvement,” she observed, propping her elbows on the counter and her chin in her hands. The trees beneath them were dotted with white and pink blossoms. 

“I don’t know,” he mused, leaning against the counter next to her. “I sort of miss watching the rats crawl around looking for moldy old chips.”

“I can see how one would. You don’t get that kind of excitement here. Just trees and flowers and grass. How pedestrian.” 

“Utterly.”

The kettle began to whistle. 

“It smells fantastic in here, by the way,” she said as he poured the tea into two mugs. 

“I’ve got an apple tart in the oven.”

“Shut up.” She gave him a look of disbelief.

“What?”

“You’re _baking_?”

He shrugged. “This is more satisfying. It’s a magical oven, of course, because getting electricity in here looked like it was going to be far more trouble than it was worth.”

“You know,” she began, taking a seat at his table, “I always thought your fascination with cooking was a result of a subconscious desire to make potions.” Her voice trailed off at the end as she realized how appalling her words truly were. Not only had she made herself seem like a know-it-all, she had made him sound the subject of a psychiatric evaluation. She supposed both were true, in a way, but still … there was no reason for her to say that. He made no reply, instead muttering a charm over his hands and taking the tart out of the oven.

“Less clumsy than rooster oven mitts, eh?” she asked weakly. 

“Something like that.”

“Draco, I’m sorry I said …”

“Forget it, Granger.” He began to cut the tart. 

“Ok.” She shifted her weight from one foot to the other, put her hands in her pockets, took her hands out of her pockets, and then crossed her arms across her chest.

Curls of steam wafted up from the slice of apple tart that he placed in front of her. Hermione’s mouth began to water. “I bet this would be good with ice cream,” he said.

“Mixing cold and hot hurts my teeth.”

“Can’t your dentist parents fix that?” He sat across from her and spread a napkin across his lap.

“I’ve never asked,” she said.

“You’ve got two parents who specialize in fixing teeth and you’ve never thought to ask them how they could fix your teeth?” he asked drolly.

“It’s weird to have dentist parents. I never felt like I could eat a toffee in their presence. And you should have seen how disappointed they looked when they realized that I was going to have an overbite. It was like I had failed them somehow. So I didn’t think my minor issue with tooth sensitivity was worth it.” She ate a forkful of tart. “This is really delicious.”

“Are you seriously telling me that your parents were disappointed by your teeth?”

“I mean, it’s not like they were going to disown me or anything, but … why are you looking at me like that?”

“You have very nice teeth,” he said, sipping his tea casually.

“I suppose I have you to thank for that. The _densaugeo_ really did wonders for my smile.”

“I was aiming for Potter.”

“Yes, that makes it loads better.”

He shrugged at her. “So what did your parents think of Madame Pomfrey’s handiwork?”

“My mother was quite pleased, but my father kept insisting that good old fashioned braces would have done the job better.”

“Interesting.”

“I’m sure,” she said.

“You don’t believe that I think it’s interesting?”

“Draco, my parents are Muggle teeth doctors. How interesting could you possibly find that?”

“Don’t assume things about me, Granger.” He gave her a hard look. She fixed her gaze on her plate and pushed the last bits of her tart in a circle.

“Sorry,” she mumbled.

“Do you know how my father died?” he asked her, voice still harsh. 

“I do.”

“I’m not asking if you know the physical circumstances that caused my father’s death.” 

“Then what are you asking?” The edge in his voice had spawned a similar one in hers. 

“I’m asking if you know what my father was thinking when he died.”

“Of course I don’t.”

“He was disappointed in me, Granger.” 

“You don’t know that.”

“Yes I do.”

“How can you possibly know that? You weren’t anywhere near him when he died. You couldn’t have used any sort of Legillemency on him, and even if you …”

“He _had_ to have been disappointed in me. I had failed him in everything.”

“Draco … the things he was probably asking you to do …”

“That doesn’t matter.” He slammed his teaspoon on the table.

“It most assuredly does.” She slammed hers in response. 

“Not to him.”

“What about to you? To … your mother?”

He picked up his teaspoon again and began to stir furiously. “That’s an entirely different …” he began, but then snapped his mouth shut, watching the teaspoon swirl around. “Is she still happy?” His voice had softened. “In the States?”

“Yes.” The teaspoon clanked against the sides of the mug. “Harry sneaks me the file every Friday. She’s got a huge birthday party for the children of some hotshot golfer next month.”

“Is she … seeing anyone?”

“I don’t think there’s anyone serious. But … she doesn’t seem lonely. Do you want to see the files? I think I could copy them for you.”

“No.”

“Are you sure?”

“This way is easier.”

“Alright.”

“But you’ll tell me if anything …”

“I promise.” 

The look that had seized his eyes at that moment made her want to grab his hand the way she had before, to cover his fingers with hers, to stroke the bony ridges of his knuckles with her thumb. Instead, she told him that he made a really lovely cup of tea.

“She taught me,” he replied. “It was the only thing she insisted on making herself instead of just conjuring it up or asking a house-elf to bring her.”

Under most other circumstances, the mention of a Malfoy house-elf would have launched Hermione into a lengthy diatribe about the Welfare of Magical Creatures, but she hardly considered it appropriate in the current situation. “Where did she learn?” she asked. It was better than saying nothing.

“Not a clue.” He sipped his tea. “Probably not from Aunt Bella.”

Hermione stiffened at the name. She opened her mouth, but closed it before she could say anything. 

“If you close your fingers around that mug any tighter, you’re going to break it.”

“Possibly,” she replied through gritted teeth. 

“That’s why this won’t work, Granger.”

She loosened her grip on the mug and tried to keep anxiety out of her voice. “What are you talking about?” 

“Why were you so sad after we saw that play? And the morning after we slept together?”

“Because I knew it couldn’t last. One way or the other, it had to end. ”

“Do you still believe that?” 

She sucked one side of her cheek between her teeth and considered how best to answer him. To hell with it, she decided. Might as well go with the truth. “I don’t want it to.”

“What about your bloody friends? Your family? Your …” He was taunting her now. She didn’t answer his question. Apparently, however, her silence was a sufficient reply. 

“You’re an utter fool,” he said, voice laced with scorn. 

“Maybe so.”

He said something under his breath, his voice harsh but too quiet for Hermione to discern his exact words.

“What?”

“Nothing,” he sighed. “Look, I have some things I need to ask you.”

“About what?” she eyed him suspiciously.

“About what happened to me.”

“Can I be an arsehole in answering them?”

His eyebrows shot up to meet his hairline. A noise that might have been a chuckle escaped from his lips. “If you like,” he replied. 

“Alright. Then ask.”

“First,” he began, taking a deep breath. “What bloody idiot decided that my name should be Drake O. Malford?”

She smiled into her tea, trying desperately not to laugh. “I can’t tell you that.” 

“It was Dean Thomas, wasn’t it?”

“What makes you say that?”

“Because he was the one in my hospital room with you when I woke up. And because he’s a fucking idiot.”

“I can neither confirm nor deny your suspicions,” she said, even though she was rather certain that her grin gave it away. 

“Fair enough. By the way, was that your attempt at being an arsehole?” 

“Not really.”

“Good. Because that was a poor showing.”

“I’ll try harder.”

“Please do. Why did you bring me that book?”

“Shakespeare? I … I just …”

“And don’t feed me any lines about empty bookshelves.”

She rolled her eyes at him. “Because I wanted you to have it, you moron.”

“That’s better,” he nodded appreciatively. “Next time try something stronger than ‘moron.’” If he had smiled when he had said that, she would have assumed he was joking. “Now,” he continued, “when did you start to notice that something had … gone wrong with the spell?”

“You woke up from the coma in 23 days. It took everyone else three months.”

“Hmm.” He seemed almost proud of that fact.

“Other than that, I couldn’t tell much of anything was wrong in the first few weeks. Mostly because you wouldn’t talk to me, and because you were being a hellacious prat.”

“Better. But not much. And when you noticed that things weren’t quite right, why didn’t you just cast the spell again? Or have someone from the Ministry do it?”

“Because I didn’t know what that would do to you.”

“I couldn’t have used Occlumency that second time. It would have worked perfectly.”

“I didn’t know you used Occlumency the first time, idiot.”

“What the hell were you afraid it would do to me?”

“I don’t know,” she said, her voice nearly a shout. “But it could have been worse.”

“Worse than that?” His voice also rose. “Granger, I was ready to fucking _kill myself_.”

“I know that.” She slammed her fists on the table “Why the hell do you think I reversed it?” 

“Well it took you bloody long enough!”

“I didn’t know if that was the best option. I had to do a lot of research before I …”

“ _Research_? Of course Hermione Granger had to fucking do research.” Veins pulsed along the sides of his pale throat. 

“What the _hell_ would you have preferred I do? Just pick a remedy at random and cross my fingers that it wouldn’t screw you up even worse?”

“What did you care?”

“That is the absolute dumbest question you could possibly ask me,” she yelled, rising from her chair.

“Why?” His chair scraped back from the table as he stood across from her.

“Because you _know_ how I felt about you, you stupid prat.”

“Why did you feel that way?”

“Because … I … I … I just did, alright? And you felt that way about me. And don’t pretend like you didn’t.” She was still shouting. 

“I’m Draco fucking _Malfoy_ ,” he shouted back. 

“So fucking _what_?” 

“You stopped seeing me as that, didn’t you? You started thinking of me as Drake Malford.” It wasn’t a question; it was an accusation.

“Of course I did,” she said. The anger seemed to leech out of her body. “How could I not? You didn’t act like Draco Malfoy. You waded around in a scummy pond to save a stuffed rabbit. You said kind things to me. You … looked at me like … like …”

“Like what?”

“Like a person and not a piece of garbage.” Tears began to burn at the corners of her eyes.

“I’m not Drake Malford,” he hissed at her. “You have to understand that.”

“Well then you’re not Draco Malfoy either,” she said, wiping the corners of her eyes with a napkin. “Because you still look at me like a person. Because we were having a perfectly civil conversation just a few moments ago.”

“For fuck’s sake, Granger,” he said, walking to the other end of the kitchen. “What is it going to take?”

“For what? What do you want me to do? Ignore you? I was doing that just fine before you invited me here, you stupid arsehole! You made me tea and an apple tart! I didn’t know you still had a scrap of paper from the legal pad! I wasn’t trying to write to you then! And you’re the one who sent me that paper rose on Christmas! So if you just want to forget about this whole thing, you’re going about it the exact wrong way!”

“I can’t forget about it, Granger! That’s what I’m fucking trying to tell you! I can’t forget about what happened!”

“Well _that’s_ ironic, isn’t it?” she snapped. “Considering how desperately you wanted to remember things a few months ago.”

He barked out a short, bitter laugh. “Well at least you’ve finally succeeded in your attempt to be an arsehole.”

“I’m not going to apologize.”

“I didn’t ask you to,” he said gruffly. 

“So what _are_ you asking me to do? I don’t understand, Draco! Make some bloody sense!” She threw her mug on the floor, sending ceramic fragments skittering across the tiles.

He said nothing, but quickly crossed the kitchen toward her, pieces of mug crunching beneath the soles of his shoes. He seized her arms, fingers pressing so tightly into her flesh that she knew his prints would remain as bruises. She focused all her attention on not allowing fear to seep into her eyes, Her muscles tightened as he strengthened his grip, but relaxed slightly as he pulled her towards him, pressing his mouth against hers. 

His lips were firm and insistent. His breath rushed against her nose, his hands wound themselves in her hair. She felt his tongue drive into her mouth and wrestle against hers, felt his body collide against hers. One of his hands roamed down her back, settling on her hip. A low moan resounded in his throat before he pushed himself away from her, panting, flushed, and noticeably aroused.

“Shit,” he muttered. He wiped at his mouth with the back of his hand and hunched his frame over the sink as if he were expecting himself to be sick at any moment.

She stared at him for what might have been a full minute, trying in vain to process what had just happened. Her lips felt swollen and her knickers were uncomfortably wet. “I’m … I’m just going to go, Draco,” she said as soon as she could manage the words. “I can’t take this.”

“Can’t take what?” he croaked.

“Whatever mind game you’re playing with me. Is it some kind of revenge for the _rescripso_?” She marched into the living room and got her bag. “Because if it is, well done. You’ve fucked with my head the way we fucked with yours. Are you satisfied?” A sob escaped before she could swallow it. 

“Granger, wait.” She could hear his footsteps behind her.

“Goodbye, Draco.” She reached for the doorknob.

“Granger! _Please_.”

The word made her pause and turn towards him. She tapped her foot on the floor and gave him the most evil look she could summon.

“Look, I’m … I’m not …” He exhaled mightily. “I’m not trying to play mind games with you.”

“So what are you doing?” She took her hand off the doorknob and turned towards him.

“I … haven’t the foggiest idea.” He looked down at his feet, then up at the ceiling.

“Why did you invite me over here?”

“Because I want to understand.”

“Understand what?” she was beyond exasperated now. 

“I want to understand what happened to me. And what I should do now.”

“Draco,” she sighed, “you can’t expect yourself to have perfect clarity about this. You went through something … extraordinary.”

“That’s not good enough, Granger.”

“That’s all I’ve got.” She reached for the doorknob again.

“Don’t go.” He covered her hand with his. “Not yet.”

“I don’t have answers for you.”

“Just stay. Please. A little while longer. I can even conjure up a notebook for you if you’d like.”

She sucked her lips in to prevent a smile. “That won’t be necessary.”

“Good. Sit with me?” 

He sat at one end of the couch. She sat at the other. She folded her arms across her chest and waited for him to say something. When he didn’t, she took the initiative. “Why did you decorate your flat this way? Why are you living here?” she asked.

“I don’t know. It just feels more comfortable.”

“This tiny flat is more comfortable than the palatial estate we both know you can afford?”

“Why are you asking me that?” 

“I’m trying to get you to answer your own questions, Draco. Don’t you get it? Some part of you obviously enjoyed being Drake Malford.”

“I know that, Granger.”

“You do?”

“Of course I do. Do you think I’m an idiot? When I got back, I barely made it two days without going for a run. I just baked a sodding apple tart. I read Muggle papers to keep up with the football scores. I’ve even found myself sort of missing being an accountant, if you can believe that.”

“So what’s the problem, Draco?” she asked, rubbing her temples. Her head was positively _throbbing_. “If it makes you happy to live here and go for runs and bake things, then do that.”

“It’s not that easy.”

“Why not?”

“Granger,” he said slowly, “it’s taken me a very long time to come to terms with the fact that he and I are actually the same person. You said yourself that you had to think of me as Drake Malford.”

“But I …”

“Listen,” he said. “When I got back here, I tried to reassume as much of my old life as possible. I tried spending time with people I used to know.”

“Like Astoria Greengrass?” The words fell out of her mouth before she knew what she was saying, and in a tone far more catty than she knew she was capable of producing. 

He arched an eyebrow at her. “Yes. Like her. What of that?”

“Nothing,” she huffed. “Forget it.”

“Jealous?” He sounded like he was smirking, but she wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of looking in his direction. 

“I said _forget it_ , Malfoy.” The leather couch cushions made squeaking sounds as she crossed one leg over the other. “Just finish what you started to say.”

“Right … well … the Ministry offered to give me all of my old clothing, all of the furniture out of the Manor, all of the heirlooms that belonged to my family. I didn’t want any of it. Looking at it made me physically ill. The only things I took are on that bookshelf right there.” He pointed to the shelf she had inspected upon arriving, then closed his eyes and ran two fingers over his forehead. “I was a Muggle, Granger. For all intents and purposes, I was a Muggle. I had a Muggle job, I lived in a Muggle flat, and I had what I thought was a Muggle girlfriend.”

“Girlfriend?”

“And when I remembered everything,” he continued, either not hearing or ignoring her interruption, “I was disgusted. Not at Drake, but at Draco, because how could I have put that much energy, that much passion, into loathing the Muggle-born? And Muggles? _Muggles_.”

“That’s how you were raised,” she said. It all sounded so simple when she put it that way: compacting all of the cruel things he had ever done or said into a facile maxim. 

“But I never even questioned it, Granger.” He slapped his open palm on the arm of the sofa. 

“You were a _child_.”

“I grew up, and I wasn’t any better. And the things I did when I was a teenager, when I should have been making independent decisions, the things I _almost_ did …” He stopped talking and drew in a sharp breath. “And when I thought about you … about us … Granger, I couldn’t even look at you for weeks. I could barely look at myself. Because I know how Drake felt about you. And I know how Draco felt about you. And the two feelings are incredibly mutually exclusive.”

“Believe me, I understand that,” she said, settling back into the couch cushions.

“You don’t, though. Not really. Because you knew who I was and what you were doing the entire time. You may have let yourself believe that I was a different person, but you must have remembered everything I had done. How did you … how did you stand to be in the same room with me, Granger?” His voice hovered somewhere between amazement and revulsion.

“I’m not going to lie and say it was easy, Draco. It wasn’t. I just … tried to see it as my job. And that’s how I got through it at first. But after a while, I … somehow I started to enjoy spending time with you.”

“But how could you?” he asked incredulously.

“I don’t know,” she said, throwing her hands in the air. “I certainly didn’t mean to! What do you want me to say? That in reality, I loathed you? That my apparent fondness for you was really just a clever ruse?” 

“Was it?”

“Yes, of course it was, Draco. And that’s why I’m still sitting here with you when anyone with half a brain would have left hours ago, provided, of course, that she had even shown up at all. _God_.” 

“You didn’t answer my question.”

“You know, if you don’t mind me playing armchair psychiatrist with you, it sounds to me like you’re asking me how I forgave you so you can discern how to forgive yourself.”

“That’s not what I’m doing,” he said quickly.

“And I can’t answer your question,” she continued, eyes locking onto his, “because I don’t know how I forgave you, or even that I forgave you at all. Because it wasn’t about that to me. It wasn’t about reconciling your past with your present. It was about loving the person in front of me. And that’s what I ended up doing.” She snapped her mouth shut and averted her gaze. She certainly hadn’t meant for all of that to come out. The resulting silence that hung between them was practically palpable. He lay his head back against the couch and stared at the ceiling. 

“Could you still do that?” he finally said. 

“Could _you_?”

“Don’t turn this around on me.”

“This isn’t about me, Draco. This is about you. I’m not the one having an existential crisis here.”

“I wouldn’t be having an ‘existential crisis’ if it weren’t for you, Granger.”

“Alright. That’s enough.” She stood up. “You obviously don’t want to …”

“I’m glad I’m having an existential crisis,” he blurted out.

“What?”

“I am. I … Look, this isn’t easy for me to say. Please sit back down. Thank you. I’ve thought about this a lot. More than you could possibly imagine. What the Ministry did to me and my mother was utter bullshit. We weren’t doing anything wrong. We were just trying to live as quietly as we could.”

“We didn’t know that. We couldn’t risk the …”

“Let me finish, Granger. What I’m really trying to say is this: as horrible as some of this has been, I just … I don’t really see how else I could have come to understand things differently. So Granger—Hermione—I am being hot and cold with you and acting like an arsehole because I’m still very confused about a lot of things, and I don’t know when or if that will ever stop. But no matter what I say or how I act, I want you to know that I am very deeply grateful for how much you’ve done for me. Not the Ministry. You.”

“Draco, I was on the Council! I agreed to the _rescripso_!”

“I know that, Granger. Will you just let me …”

“No. Look, I’m sorry, Draco, I am sincerely sorry for what we …”

“ _Merlin_ , Granger. Do you ever let anyone get a word in edgewise? I know what I did to you and the people you care about. I know what my family did. You had no good reason to care about me or to put so much on the line for me. I don’t understand it, but I think that’s just because at the end of the day, we are two very different people.”

“We might not be.” 

“I wouldn’t have done that for you,” he said quickly.

“Drake would have.” Her voice was a whisper.

He swallowed hard and blinked slowly, but kept silent.. 

She stood and walked towards the door. “I’m going to go now. Please don’t stop me this time.”

“I won’t.” 

He kept true to his word, not even rising from the couch. She picked up her bag and slung it over her shoulder. “Thanks … for the tea.”

“Of course.”

“Well, I … I guess I’ll see you around.”

“I’ve thought about you every day, Granger.”

She turned towards him. He wasn’t looking at her, but instead staring at the blank wall. His face was moon-pale, his hands laced together and trembling slightly. Every molecule in her body wanted to go to him, to wreath him in her arms, to press his face against her neck.

“Goodbye, Draco.”

“Goodbye, Granger.”


	22. Chapter 22

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hermione sends Draco some ice cream.

\--------------------

Ron had not been particularly happy when he’d heard that she’d dumped Cadell. Especially when she couldn’t really explain why she had.

“I don’t know, Ron,” she had said. “He’s just … not the right person for me.”

“But he loves books!”

“Yes, I am aware of that.”

“But isn’t that why you dumped me?”

She had sighed then, and shook her head, and thought that this exchange actually demonstrated to her exactly why she had broken up with him years ago. 

But Ron had gotten over it, especially after Harry and Ginny had distracted him with the fact that he was going to be an uncle. It was going to be a boy, and they were going to name him James Sirius. Harry said that Molly had been so pleased that she didn’t even seem to care that they’d have to make some rather significant alterations to Ginny’s dress. 

In May, there was a party at the Burrow to celebrate Harry and Ginny’s news. Cadell stopped by. He and Hermione joked about how there seemed to be parties at the Burrow every weekend, and how there probably would be for all of eternity, considering how many Weasleys there were and how often they had things to celebrate. After that conversation, things got a little awkward, and she politely excused herself to see if Ginny needed any help with the tray she was carrying.

At one point during the evening, Harry cornered her. She had no reason to suspect his motives at first … he smiled at her and asked her about work. She dutifully reported about the investigation she had launched on behalf of Tiffy for a good ten minutes before she realized he wasn’t actually paying attention. 

“So I told Astoria that if she didn’t start letting Tiffy wear protective goggles during the smelting process, I’d have Shacklebolt put on a tutu and sic his trained porpoises on the entire family.”

“Way to let her have it, Hermione,” Harry said absently.

“Of course, I don’t really know how I feel about Shacklebolt using trained porpoises for this. After all, porpoises are highly intelligent creatures. Don’t you find this exploitative, Harry?”

“What’s that?”

“The trained porpoises. Shacklebolt’s trained porpoises.”

“Huh? Crap. I’m sorry, Hermione.”

“I figured as much.”

“You were saying about the … porpoises, was it?” She knew that Harry was trying to make his expression as serious as possible, just in case she hadn’t been kidding.

“Nevermind. I’ll take it up with Shacklebolt himself.” Might as well let him off the hook; he obviously had a lot on his mind. “So November, huh?”

“I’m kind of freaking out,” he admitted.

“You’re going to be a brilliant father.”

“You think so?”

“I know so.”

“Sometimes I worry, Hermione. I didn’t exactly have an admirable father figure in my life when I was a child.”

“But think of all the ones you’ve met since then … Sirius, Arthur, even Dumbledore in a way ...”

“I know … I’m just nervous, Hermione.”

“How can you not be? The thought of being responsible for the formation and rearing of a completely new life? Of course, there are books that tell you things, but I imagine that no amount of … sorry, Harry,” she said. Harry’s leg was jiggling so furiously that his knee threatened to upend the table they sat at. “I mean … I’m sure you’ll pick it up as you go along.”

“Remind me not to come to you for any more soothing words,” he said with a laugh.

She smiled at him and looked at her watch. “This party just keeps going, eh?”

“The Weasleys know how to make a night of it.”

“Harry,” she said, lowering her voice and leaning in. “Can I ask you something you’ll keep between us?”

He followed her lead, hunching closer. “Of course.”

“Do you think … well … don’t take this the wrong way, but … don’t you think that Ron and Geri got engaged rather quickly? I’m happy for them, of course, but … what’s that look you’ve got on your face?”

Harry opened his mouth to say something, but then seemed to think better of it, snapping it closed quickly. 

“What?” she asked.

“Nothing … I just thought you were going to ask me something else.”

“Like what?”

“Nothing.”

“Harry …” Her tone rose.

“To return to your question,” he began, pushing his glasses up on the bridge of his nose. “It did seem rather quick to me, I’ll admit, but they seem fairly over the moon with each other.”

“That’s for sure.” 

The two of them watched Geri and Ron from across the room. He was miming some sort of Quidditch move while she laughed and shook her head. George and Angelina were surveying the same scene from a distance and whispering to each other.

“What do you think _they’re_ up to?” she asked, nodding towards George and Angelina.

“I’m not sure. But it’s probably not good for Ron.”

“Fred should be here,” Hermione blurted out. She twisted the end of a paper streamer into a tight curl. 

“I was thinking the same thing.”

“Everyone probably is.” The streamer fell from her fingers, slowly untwisting into its former shape.

“Once we found out it was going to be a boy, I asked Gin if she’d like to name him Fred, but she said she wouldn’t want to take that from George. You know, in case he and Angelina ever have a son.”

“Right.” 

“I mean … oh, poor Ron …” Harry said as they watched George throw a bludger-sized ball of crab dip at Ron’s unsuspecting head.

“What kind of a trick was that?” Ron shouted. “That wasn’t even remotely clever. What even _is_ this?” He brought the substance to his nose and then to his lips. “Joke’s on you, George. I actually like … oh _bleeding hell_.” The second the dip had gotten past his lips, Ron’s hands were replaced with a lovely pair of crab claws. Angelina and George exchanged high-fives. Geri was laughing so hard that she had to brace herself against a table.

“I think Geri is going to fit right in,” Harry mused.

“Certainly seems that way.” 

“And that’s alright with you?”

“Of course it is. Look, I admit, it was strange at first, but … do you think he’s going to catch him?”

Ron was attempting to chase George around the living room, but unfortunately, could only manage to run backwards.

“No, but not for lack of trying. Look at him go.”

Hermione giggled and began to stack the plates on the table. “I should probably be getting out of here. Got a lot of work to catch up on and …”

“Hermione, what happened with Cadell?” he asked, taking the plates from her hand.

She sighed and rolled her eyes. “Took you long enough, Potter.” 

“What?”

“Don’t you want to hear more about Shacklebolt’s porpoises?”

“You … _were_ kidding about that, weren’t you?”

“I don’t know,” she sniffed. “Maybe you should ask Shacklebolt himself.”

“That would surely earn me a promotion.” He had finally wrested all of the plates from her hand. “Stop avoiding the question.”

“I don’t know Harry,” she said, sighing in defeat. “Cadell is very nice, but he’s just not the right guy for me.” 

“Are you sure?”

“Of course I’m sure. It’s like when you were dating Cho. You liked her, but you knew she wasn’t …”

“Ginny.”

“Exactly.” She began to gather up the plates again.

“So who, exactly, is Cadell _not_?”

“I don’t know. He’s just not … the right one.”

“Hermione …”

“Harry …”

They exchanged extremely weighty glances.

“He’s very good at his job, you know.”

“I don’t know who you are talking about.” 

“Last week he concocted a potion that rendered the drinker impervious to _sectumsempra_. And the week before he and I actually worked together one-on-one to devise a …”

“I’m completely positive that I don’t know who you are talking about, Harry,” Hermione said, shooting cleaning spells at the dishes so furiously that most of them were missing their targets and scrubbing Harry’s glasses and one of her shoes instead.

“We both know who I am talking about, Hermione,” Harry said. He removed his glasses and tried to wipe the soap bubbles away with a corner of his shirt. 

“About whom you are talking. That’s the correct way of putting it,” she said. “No shame in it. I just made the same mistake myself. Sometimes one speaks so quickly that one forgets …”

“Hermione, will you put that wand down? My ears do not need to be polished right now, thank you.” 

“Sorry,” she muttered, lowering her wand. 

“It really hasn’t been bad working with him. Working with _Draco_.” He over-enunciated the name. “Sometimes he can be a git—ok, most of the time, he can be a git—but he’s smart, and dedicated, and seems to genuinely …”

“You’re about to split an infinitive,” she interjected.

“Have you talked to him much since he got back?”

“A little.” She plopped back into her chair, admitting defeat. 

“And?”

“I don’t know, Harry.” Her voice was perilously close to a whine. “Has he … has he said anything to you about …”

“Nope. All business.”

“Oh.”

“Everything will work itself out, Hermione.”

“That’s one of those things you say to someone when you don’t actually know what to say.” 

“Yes it is.”

“How did _that_ happen?” Hermione asked, gesturing towards the scene in the middle of the room. Ron had finally caught George and was holding his nose between his pincers.

“I think Geri used a Jelly-Legs Jinx on George.”

“Oh, she’ll pay for that.” 

They watched as Angelina slipped a few drops of something into Geri’s glass. 

“Sooner rather than later.”

“That could’ve been me about to drink that,” Hermione mused.

“Regrets?”

Across the room, Geri took a sip of her butterbeer.

“Some,” she said. “If I’m being honest.”

Geri gagged, held her hand to her throat, and dropped the glass. After suffering an extended coughing fit, she began to pull a series of what looked like filthy old gym socks from her mouth.

“But not as many as you might think.”

“Can’t imagine why,” Harry said with a laugh. “Come on, let’s break this up before it gets out of hand.”

“Harry?”

“Yeah?”

“Don’t tell Ron. About … Draco.” 

Ron had released George’s nose and was now trying to use his pincers to help pull socks from Geri’s mouth.

“I think he’s got enough to worry about right now.”

\-------------------

On June 5th, she enchanted a strawberry ice cream cone so that it wouldn’t start melting until someone opened the box it came in. Then she wrapped the box in birthday paper and attached it to an owl. 

On June 13th, he knocked on her door. 

“I’ve thought about things,” he said.

She invited him in, apologizing for the mess while also silently thanking herself for having cleaned her flat last week. Her apparel was a different story, however; she was wearing a fairly ragged tank-top and a pair of frayed jean-shorts.

“Do you want some tea?” she asked.

“No. Not this time, Hermione.” His mouth was a thin line. 

Something that felt like lead fell into the pit of her stomach. “Oh. Well. I guess you should just get on with it then.”

“Yes.” He swallowed and hooked his thumbs into his back pockets. “I’ve thought about things.”

“You said that already,” she reminded him

“Right. Well. Look, Granger …”

“Just say it, Draco,” she hissed.

“I’m … I can’t … this isn’t … I want to …”

“Just _say it_. Like ripping off a band-aid.” Blood roared in her ears.

“Why did you send me a strawberry ice cream cone?”

“I don’t want to play games with you anymore. Just say what you have to …” 

“Humor me. Just once more.”

“Fine.” She folded her arms primly.“Because it was your birthday.” 

“But why strawberry?” 

She sighed. “Because you told me once that you had a complex relationship with strawberry ice cream. I just thought it was like a metaphor for … it was stupid, okay? I’m sorry I sent it. I will refrain from all future …”

“My favorite flavor of ice cream is actually strawberry.”

“So?” she asked, feeling rather agitated and wishing she had never opened the door in the first place. 

“Back then, I was frustrated that I couldn’t remember what my favorite flavor of ice cream was. So I only ate strawberry ice cream because it was the first one I saw in the grocer’s freezer. And now that I have my memories back, I know that strawberry is actually my favorite flavor.”

“What does that have to do with anything?” Her agitation had begun to boil into actual anger. 

“I was drawn to it.”

“Or it’s a bloody coincidence.”

“And I’ve always hated mint chocolate chip. My tastes didn’t change at all.”

“What are you getting at?” 

“I must have always found you uncommonly beautiful. I just couldn’t admit it to myself.”

She felt her eyes dart wildly across his face, searching for some sort of indication as to what he was really trying to say. Nothing. 

“Draco, stop. I told you that I’m done playing games. You can’t just …”

“I want to be with you.”

“You … what?”

“I want to be with you,” he repeated. 

“ _With_ me?”

“Yes.” He finally smiled. “Yes. With you. I want to be with you.”

“Oh.” 

“Yes.”

“And you … assume that I still want to be with you?”

“You _are_ the only one who remembered my birthday.”

“I was just being polite.” 

“You were?”

“Yes.” A hint of a smile began to give her away.

“So you don’t want to be with me?” His eyebrow arched.

“I never said that.”

“No, you didn’t.”

“What made you come here now? What about all of those things that you said? Why did you…” Her stream of questions began to fade out as he closed the gap between them.

“Can we talk later?” he asked. “ _Hours_ later?” His breath was hot against her cheek. 

“Yes,” she whispered, taking him by the hand and leading him into the bedroom. 

Draco’s mouth was on hers before they even crossed the threshold into her bedroom. She curled her fingers into his hair, pulling his face closer to hers, forcing his lips to press against hers even more tightly.

He yanked the straps of her tank top and bra down over her shoulders, pulling his mouth from hers and repositioning it on her neck, sucking and nibbling until she rewarded him with a chorus of moans.

She pushed him away, but only long enough to pull her shirt over her head and give him time to do the same. The rest of their clothes soon followed. She barely had a chance to drink in his naked body before it was on top of hers, both of them stretched out diagonally on her bed.

“Granger,” he rasped, leaving a trail of kisses across her jawline. “I missed this so fucking much.”

She groaned and tilted her head back into the mattress. She felt drunk with the scent of him, with the heat of his body and the way his tongue felt across her flesh. She wanted to freeze this moment, to make her hands stop roving so frantically across his body, to force them to settle in one place so that she could memorize the way his muscles moved beneath his skin. But that wasn’t happening. Not when she heard him groan as she nibbled at that spot on the base of his neck that she remembered as being particularly sensitive. “ _Granger_ …” She began to suck at the spot as hard as she could, tasting just a hint of blood. A drop of sweat fell from his forehead onto shoulder.

She gave up his neck and pushed the white-blond fringe from his face. His eyes flashed with heat and anticipation and something deeper. Roses bloomed in his cheeks. He propped himself up on his forearms and kissed her temples.

“Let’s take our time with this later,” he whispered against her ear. “Right now, I want to fucking _devour_ you.”

She made a sound that might have been a word and guided his mouth back to hers, tangling her tongue with his. He was rock-hard against her and had already left a small trail of pre-cum along her thigh. He gasped when she seized him and pressed his forehead against hers as she guided the tip of his erection inside of her. They both cried out as he entered her, his fingers winding into her hair as she wrapped her legs around him. 

Last time, it had been tinged with sadness, because she had known that it couldn’t last, and that he didn’t really know who he was, or who she was, or what it truly meant for them to be doing what they were doing. _This time_ , it was frantic, hungry, unguarded. _This_ time, they found a rhythm immediately, rising and falling together until the world became the two of them: the way their bodies joined, the way their sweat mingled into a sheen that glistened over their bodies. 

She arched her back, drawing him deeper inside of her. He made a nose in the back of his throat and caught his lower lip in between his teeth, eyes rolling back into his head. He leaned back on his knees, pulling his chest from hers. He drew in a sharp breath and stopped thrusting. The muscles in his neck tensed and his forearms trembled. She whimpered softly, trying to egg him on by clenching her thighs tighter. He silenced her by covering her breast with his mouth, tongue swirling around her nipple. She moaned and dug her nails into his shoulders; he sucked harder in response. 

“ _Draco_ ,” she breathed. He stretched his hand down to the juncture between their bodies, stroking her clit with his thumb. He kept his body tense, seemingly willing himself not to move inside of her. She knew that he was close, waiting for her to climax so that he could join her. 

He didn’t have long to wait. As his teeth grazed her nipple and the pad of his thumb move swiftly and firmly across her swollen clit, she could feel the tension that had gathered at her core begin to come undone. His lips left her nipple and returned to her lips, propping himself up on his elbows. “Yes, Granger,” he whispered. She cried out against his mouth, bucking her hips up against him, feeling her muscles constrict against his throbbing cock as she came, as he came, as the hot liquid pulsed into her. 

He collapsed on top of her, panting against her neck, shuddering as he withdrew from her. She nuzzled against him, settling her head against his chest, watching his stomach rise and fall in time with hers. Her fingers feathered through his hair, pulling the matted strands away from his forehead. His heartbeat hummed in her ears, lulling her into a state of half-sleep.

What could have been either minutes or hours after that, a tickling across her arm stirred her. She opened one eye to see his slim, pale fingers dancing across her skin.

“Sorry to wake you,” he said. “But it’s just about next time.”

“Just bout what?” she asked.

His mouth found hers, and then she remembered. 

Later— _hours_ later—they lay together side by side, eyes locked, fingers making slow paths down each others’ faces. 

“So here we are, Granger.”

“Yes,” she said. “Here we are.”

“How did we get here?”

“I believe we walked. From the living room, if I recall correctly.”

“Yes. I also recall that brief journey. I meant,” she said with a small yawn, “what made you come over to my flat?”

“I told you, it was the …”

“And do not tell me that it was the ice cream.”

“Alright, fine. It wasn’t the ice cream. I’d been thinking of doing this since the moment you left my flat after we had tea. The ice cream was the impetus.”

“But why …” she began.

“I don’t know, Granger. I can’t explain everything that went through my mind, really. All I know for certain is this: you make me feel like the person I should be. And I want to be with you. If you’ll have me.”

She ran her thumb across his lower lip. He kissed it softly. 

“Of course I will.” 

“I still have a lot to figure out … about … everything. Who I am. What I’m going to be. But I want to figure that out with you.”

“And you’re not going to push me away?”

“No, Hermione.”

“Alright then.”

“But I should just give you fair warning.” He leaned over and whispered in her ear. “I’ve been told that I can be a bit of an arsehole.”

“Now who told you that?”

“Pretty much everyone who’s ever met me.”

“Thank you for the warning,” she said. “I’ll take that under advisement.”

He pulled her closer, arms encircling her shoulders.

“What now?”

“Mmm … sleep?” she mumbled.

“Are you asking me to stay the night?” he asked with feigned shock.

“So what if I am?”

“I might have to borrow your clothes in the morning.”

She chuckled at the image his words created in her head. “And what if that turns me on?”

“Hmm,” he said, rolling onto his back. “Then I will definitely have to borrow your clothes in the morning.”

She looked at the clock. “It’s basically morning now.”

“Better get out some clothes then,” he yawned. “Extra frilly, please.”

She kissed his shoulder and draped her arm across his frame. “Goodnight, Draco.”

“Goodnight, Hermione.”  
\-----------------

She lay there watching motes of dust dance in the sunbeam that fell across the large pile of books in the corner. His skin was pale and warm beneath her, the golden hair on his chest ruffling as she exhaled. 

“It wouldn’t kill you to dust in here, Granger. I know better than to suggest a house-elf, but there are spells for these things, you know.”

She snuggled closer to him. “How long have you been awake?”

“Long enough to know that while you are also staring at that dusty sun-beam, you have not yet been motivated to _scourgify_ anything.”

“Prat.”

He sighed and attempted to run his fingers through her hair. 

“Have you ever considered petitioning the Ministry to have this area registered as a refuge for woodland creatures?”

“You are not talking like someone who wants to spend many more nights in my bed, Malfoy.”

“What about _my_ bed, then?”

“We’ll see.” She planted a kiss on his shoulder. 

“Are the sheets clean, at least?”

“Not after last night.”

“Good point. _Were_ they clean, then?” 

“They were obviously clean enough to suit you.”

“I had other things on my mind then.”

“And now?”

“I’ve got my priorities in order.”

“They’re clean, you git. You are worse than my mothe … you’re just a git.” She squeezed her eyes shut and whispered an apology.

“It’s alright, Granger. I actually have been meaning to tell you. They’re going to reverse the spell on her.”

“ _What_?” Hermione sat upright, clutching the sheet against her breasts. 

“Did you really not hear me correctly or are you just expressing disbelief?” he said with a yawn. 

“I … the latter.” 

“Why are you covering up?” he asked, tugging at the sheet. “I think I know what you look like under there.”

“Oh no,” she replied, tightening her grip, “don’t change the subject.”

“Fine,” he said with a heavy sigh. He abandoned his attempt at removing the sheet and instead swung his legs over the side of the bed.

“Where are you going?” She let the sheet slide down and reached for a shirt from the floor.

“I’m going to _scourgify_ your tub, and then I am going to take a bath. You are, of course,” he said, casting her a sidelong glance, “quite welcome to join me.”

“Stop avoiding this topic of conversation! What were you just saying?” She pulled her tank top over her head and got a clean pair of knickers from the drawer.

He stretched, scratched at his stomach, and let his eyes skirt across her. “ _Merlin_ , I want to shag you until I am blind.”

“Malfoy…” she warned, propping her hands on her hips. 

“You’re only making it worse by doing that.” He took a step towards her. 

“Do I need to conjure a burlap sack for myself before you will talk to me?”

He narrowed his eyes and nodded gravely. “That might be necessary.”

She threw a pillow at him and bent over to get a pair of shorts from her dresser.

“Say, could you please begin a sentence with ‘For your _information_ , Mr. Malford?’”

“For the love of … just tell me the story!” she exploded, folding her arms across her chest. 

“So impatient,” he chided. “You know, when you fold your arms like that, you actually kind of buoy them up a bit. The effect is quite …”

“ _Draco_!” she grabbed her wand from the nightstand and leveled it at him.

“Okay, Okay!” he held up his hands in surrender. “I think the matter had to pass through every bloody committee in the Ministry, but they agreed to reverse the spell. There are a few things that need to be worked out on the Muggle end, but once they take care of those loose ends, it’ll be done.”

“I … wow.” She had so many questions to ask that she had no idea where to start. 

“Very articulate.” He rubbed at his eyes and headed towards the bathroom.

“Are you … going with them? To reverse it?” she asked, following him out of the bedroom.

“I think so. And guess what? We are _not_ taking her to New Zealand.” He unscrewed the cap on her shampoo and took a whiff. “So _this_ is the scent.” 

“Of _course_ you’re not going to New Zealand, that was just … wait a minute … Draco, are you sure this is the best thing for her?” 

“Yes, Granger. She belongs here. No matter how happy she seems in America, she belongs here. And so do Pansy and Blaise. The Minsitry is talking things over with their families, deciding the best course of action. So you actually _own_ conditioner? You really could have fooled me.” He tapped his wand against the tub, removing the invisible layer of grime that he obviously believed to be covering the tile. 

“My tub wasn’t dirty.”

He arched an eyebrow at her and tapped the faucets. Warm water began to flow and steam filled the room.

“Are you joining me?”

“It’s a one-person tub.”

He tapped the tub with his wand again, doubling its size, and extended a hand to her, a sly grin on his face.

\---------------------  
When the water had gone cold and their skin had started to resemble pinkish prunes, they dried off and Draco returned the tub to its normal proportions. He took it upon himself to make tea while she began to make them pancakes.

“Are you actually cooking them, Granger?”

“Well, in a way,” she said. “I’m using magic to do the stirring and flipping and whatnot. And I had to transfigure the baking soda into baking powder. And this is a self-heating pan. It’s not particularly authentic, but at least you still get a pancake-cooking smell.” 

“I see.”

She split them evenly between their plates and stirred sugar into her tea.

“I feel like I should be watching you wolf down thirty glasses of water right now,” she said. 

“And I feel like we should be sitting in a kitchen that doesn’t look like a cyclone has passed through it. You know that you can use magic to clean, don’t you Granger?”

“It’s _clean_ ,” she protested. “It’s just cluttered.”

He snorted. “Right.”

“For your _information_ ,” she began, nose in the air, “I happen to think better when my surroundings are a little cluttered.”

“What kind of thinking do you need to do in a kitchen? Especially if you don’t actually cook in it?”

“Eat your bloody pancakes,” she muttered.

He winked at her and stuffed a forkful into his mouth.

“Did you just … wink at me?”

“I think I did.”

“Is that … something you do?”

“Why the hell not?”

“Why the hell not indeed.” She raised her mug in a gesture of conviviality and took a sip. 

When they had finished their breakfast, she used her wand to clean the dishes. He used his to put them back into the cabinets, shooting her a knowing glance in the process. 

“Thank you for breakfast, Granger,” he said, pushing his chair back from the table.

“You are very welcome.”

They stared at each other for a moment. He drummed his fingers on the tabletop. She tapped her foot on the floor.

“We should talk, Draco.”

“Why?”

“Because … we need to … figure things out.”

“What’s to figure out, Granger?”

“Well …where we go from here, I suppose. Especially considering your mother. I mean, there are ...”

“Wouldn’t it be better to just figure it out as we go along?”

“That’s really not how I operate, Draco.”

“Fine, Granger. I’ll humor you. Let’s make a plan. Shall I get some graph paper? Ooh, I know, I’ll work up a spreadsheet. I got good at those during my stint as an accountant.”

“That’s not what I mean,” she said, rolling her eyes. 

“What _do_ you mean then?” he asked. 

“I’m … not exactly sure,” she admitted. 

He covered her hand with his. “We don’t need a plan.”

“Famous last words,” she said, a smile stretching across her lips.

He chuckled softly and brought her hand to his mouth and kissed it. “This is very strange, isn’t it?”

“I’m trying not to think about it too much.”

“I didn’t know you were capable of that.”

“Ha ha.” She narrowed her eyes. “But seriously. I mean … shouldn’t we talk about …”

“You know,” he began, “we could talk until we are both blue in the face. We can rehash the past and rehearse the future, and none of it is going to matter. Let’s just _be_ , Granger.”

She brushed her knuckles lightly across his cheekbones. “Alright, Draco,” she said softly. “Let’s just be.”


	23. Chapter 23

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Coda

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone for reading! I appreciate every single one of you!

\------  
He knew that no one wanted him here. He had felt various members of the Weasley clan burning holes into his skull with their eyes all night. He also knew better than to eat or drink anything that any of them—particularly the remaining twin—had even glanced at. Potter had smiled at him and shaken his hand, but despite this show of courtesy, he knew that he hadn’t truly wanted Draco Malfoy to be at his wedding.

_She_ wanted him here, of course. And that was why he came. 

“Who is that one bloke in the navy blue?” 

She followed his gaze. “Who?”

“The one across the room. That one … the one who looks like he’s going to kill me? Not that that distinguishes him much amongst this crowd, but I’ve never even _seen_ that fellow.”

“Oh.” She finally seemed to understand whom he meant. The man caught her eye and then looked away quickly. She followed suit, a blush forming across her cheeks.

“Who is that?”

“It’s Ron’s future brother-in-law,” she explained. Her voice was a bit too matter-of-fact for that to be the entire story.

“And why does he hate me?”

“Ron probably told him to.”

“That doesn’t explain why he’s also giving you pathetic little glances when he thinks you’re not looking.”

“Oh, fine. We … dated. For a bit.”

“Ah. Well, that explains it. Really? You dated _him_?”

“He was nice, Draco.”

“Lucky he had _that_ going for him.”

“You’re such an … oh, forget it. Why aren’t you eating your salad?”

“Are you seriously asking me that question? Have you not noticed the way people here are looking at me?”

“I already checked it for enchantments,” she said around a mouthful of food. “You’re in the clear.”

“Do you always talk with your mouth full, Granger? Is this what I have to look forward to for the next fifty years?”

“For your _inform_ …” she began, but then broke off, returning her fork to her plate. “Draco Malfoy, did you just imply that …”

“I suppose that I did.” He took a tentative bite of tomato. “Am I growing any sort of face-tentacles yet?”

“I _told_ you that I’d checked it. Can we go back to what you just said?”

He took another bite. “How about now?”

“Stop dodging the question.”

“You’re the one who’s dodging the question. Are there face-tentacles or not?”

“Of course there aren’t. What did you mean by …”

“Would you like to dance?”

“What?”

“Would. You. Like. To. Dance?” he repeated.

“To dance?”

“Did I suddenly start speaking Mermish?”

“I just … didn’t peg you for a dancer.”

“Do you have any idea how many dancing lessons I had to endure as a child? Let’s put them to use, Granger,” he said, standing up and extending his hand to her.

\-------------------  
He skimmed his fingers against her bare back, pressing her closer to him as they moved in time to the lively music.

“I don’t think I’ve danced since the Yule Ball,” he mused.

“Been a while for me too.”

Her eyes were large and brown and warm, and insisted on maintaining contact with his. 

“Why are you looking at me like that?”

“I just … never …”

“Think you’d be dancing with me at Harry Potter’s wedding?” he finished.

“That’s not what I was going to say,” she said with a smirk. “But now that you mention it, this _is_ a bit bizarre.”

“So what were you going to say?”

“Nevermind.” She continued to smirk at him. 

“What?”

“Nothing.”

“Would you prefer it if I begged you to speak, Hermione Granger? That truly must be your fondest desire.”

“So are you going to make my fondest desire come true?”

He led her into a graceful spin and then dipped her low. “Here? On the dancefloor? In front of all of your Gryffindor friends?” He pulled her back up towards him. “Wouldn’t you rather wait until we are in the privacy of a bedroom?” he whispered into her ear.

A flush crept up her chest and throat. The fabric of his trousers became rather tight. He pressed her body closer to his as they resumed dancing.

“Your mind is always in the gutter, Malfoy.”

“And you’ve got bedroom eyes, Granger.”

“What does that even mean?”

“Is my meaning really that obscure?” he drawled.

“I wasn’t accusing you of having an obscure meaning, I was simply …”

“So what were you going to say?”

“Let me get this straight,” she said. “You’re interrupting me, but you’re also asking me to keep talking?” 

“I’m cutting off a lecture in favor of hopefully hearing something marginally more interesting.”

“You are such a prat,” she said with a grin.

“True.”

“Fine. I was going to say that I didn’t ever get a chance to tell you something. Remember? Way back when? In your Muggle flat? Right before we left it for the last time?”

He felt his muscles tense. His palms began to sweat, causing her to grimace at him and wipe her hands on the arms of his dress robes.

“I recall, Granger.”

“Alright then.”

“And?”

“And what?” she asked. “I was simply remembering that I never told you something.”

He could feel the sweat begin to drip down the back of his neck.

“Are you alright? You look a bit off.”

“I’m fine.” 

“If you say so.”

“You enjoy watching me squirm, don’t you?” 

“How dare you accuse me of something like that?” she asked, eyes full of laughter. 

The song ended. Everyone clapped politely for the wizarding orchestra. They began to play a new song, a much slower tune. His eyes darted over her shoulder, across the room, down to his feet. Anywhere but on to hers.

“What?” she asked.

“Nothing.”

“I can tell when you want to tell me something but aren’t quite yet mentally prepared to do so.”

“You think you know everything, don’t you, Granger?” He looked at her lips instead. Much safer. They curled around her teeth into a lopsided grin. 

“I’ve been accused of worse things.” She took her hand from his and looped both of her arms around his waist. “Look at me, Draco.”

He huffed and rolled his eyes, but complied with her wishes. The music swelled around them, but their feet stilled, reducing their dancing to a half-hearted sway.

“What?” he asked.

“You tell me.” Her eyes were _killing_ him right now.

“You already know.”

“Do I?”

“Yes.”

He skimmed his thumb over her cheekbone. She closed her eyes and leaned into his palm, kissing it softly.

“You know that I do,” he whispered into her ear. “I did then. I never stopped.”

She sighed softly, but kept her eyes closed, rightly assuming that this was the way to keep him talking.

"And for the record,” he continued, “I was going to tell you first. That night after the play. _You_ shushed _me_.”

“I know,” she murmured, leaning her head against his shoulder.

“Why didn’t you let me?”

“I was afraid you’d regret it … later.”

“Ah.”

The song ended. Polite applause from the dancers turned into boisterous cheers as Harry and Ginny took the floor. The band began a new song and everyone watched them as they danced.

“She looks radiant, doesn’t she?” Hermione asked.

“And as big as a bloody house.”

She elbowed him in the gut. 

“A _radiant_ house, of course.”

He watched them twirl clumsily, giggling and smiling and beaming at one another. Something like fingers closed around his heart and squeezed.

“How about it, Granger?” he whispered to her. “You think you’ll ever want to look like that? Swollen and awkward and obviously incredibly uncomfortable?”

He knew this would draw a look from her, so he kept his gazed fixed on the dancers. 

“I don’t know, Draco. I’ve never thought about it much. My job has kept me rather busy.”

“Of course.”

“And what about you? Do you think you’ll ever want to be where Harry is right now? Arm in arm with someone the size of a radiant house and scared out of your bloody wits because in a few short months, you’re going to be a father?”

“Well, Granger, I’m quite sure that you and the crowd here can all agree on one thing.”

“What’s that?”

“The world desperately needs more Malfoys.”

She covered her mouth to keep from laughing out loud, but she couldn’t keep her shoulders from shaking. A few eyes darted their way.

“We’re an endangered species,” he reasoned.

Tears began to gather at the corners of her eyes. A small noise escaped from her, but she tried to play it off as a coughing fit. More of the wedding guests sent disapproving glances in their direction. Someone conjured a glass of water and floated it over to her. She sipped it and raised the glass in thanks. 

“So what do you think?” he asked. “Viola Rose if it’s a girl?”

Her brows furrowed at him as if she were trying to decide if he were kidding or not. “How much thought have you put into this, Draco?”

He shrugged at her and offered a smile that refused to give anything away. 

“Octavius Granger if it’s a boy,” she added, applauding with the rest of the crowd as Harry and Ginny finished their dance. 

“Octavius _Granger_?”

“Yes.”

He stole her glass and took a sip, then floated it back to their table. “I think I like that.”

“Good.”

The band began to play once more and other couples flooded the dance floor, surrounding them with music and movement and laughter. She put her hand in his, smiled, and pulled them into the center of it all.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading!


End file.
